


Struggle

by Lover_of_all_things_Pat



Series: Bubbly Orange [Verse] [2]
Category: All Elite Wrestling, Professional Wrestling
Genre: ALWAYS GOTTA HIT MJF WITH A SENTON, Allin missing, Assault, Bad Decisions, Blindfolds, Blues Clues - Freeform, Bubbly Orange referenced, Buy a t-shirt to save Sammy, Chuck and Trent do a tag team reading, Crying, Crying During Sex, Cub Sammy, Cuddles, Detectives, Drinking, Drugs are Bad, Eventual Smut, Everything is consensual, Gay Sex, Hager cares, Hager is a saint, Hager is amazing, Hager vs Mox, Hickeys, Holy Diver by DIO, Hungry Hungry Hippos - Freeform, Injury, It happens, JAKE HAGER'S NIPPLE, JERICHO IS PAPA BEAR, Jimmy Havoc paints faces, Kink, Kink Exploration, Lube, M/M, Marko stunt eats, Memory Loss, Molestation, Mox loves Darby, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Beta Read, Oral, Orange Cassidy loves Dwayne The Rock Johnson, Orange Cassidy's stripping skills, Pandacubs, Rescue, Ricky Starks is an ass, Risks, SOS_ Save our Sammy, SPACE JAM movie reference, Sammy Guevara is a natural sub, Sammy bashing but everyone loves him, Santana thinks everyone should just bone, Santana's nachos, Severe Injury, Sir Jake Hager, Story has some dark moments, Sub Sammy, Take Flight by Monteasy, Trauma, Weight Lifting, almost time for more sammy lovins, baby-punching as a sport, botches, confused Sammy Guevara, cub abduction, description of injury, distasteful photography, extraction, full recovery, gay wrestlers, humpty dumpty - Freeform, it's not bad, just kidding, kink as a solution, mjf - Freeform, movies - Freeform, pervert Orange Cassidy, public, safe words, sammy knows a guy, script alteration, sick Orange, they finally have sex, under negotiated kink, vlogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 38,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26384653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lover_of_all_things_Pat/pseuds/Lover_of_all_things_Pat
Summary: Guevara has something to prove. Hager thinks he's proven enough. Sometimes strength comes in the form of acceptance.
Relationships: Chris Jericho/ Orange Cassidy, Jake Hager & Sammy Guevara, Jake Hager/Sammy Guevara, Santana and nachos
Series: Bubbly Orange [Verse] [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927756
Comments: 125
Kudos: 38





	1. Tryhard

"Come on, you son of a bitch!" Ricky Starks towers above and taunts, goads, antagonizes. "Spanish God? More like Spanish _Fraud_!" His hands come down on the bar and _push_.

It's not a safe or ethical practice.

Guevara has his back to the bench and a hefty set of weights above; he is the creme filling in this Oreo. The lithe cords of muscle in his arms and chest tighten and pulse, flex and tremble with force. He pushes back against the iron bar and Ricky's added mass.

He tries to make it look easy; he doesn't want to come off as some wuss just because he's young. His reps are smooth at first, but Ricky puts more and more of his own body weight onto the bar, leaning in until more of his heft is supported by the bar than his own feet.

Sammy's arms gradually sink towards himself, the bar getting lower and lower even when he grits his teeth and tries his hardest. Every muscle in his body is straining tight with effort.

"Fuck, Guevara. Gravity is making you its bitch!" Starks is an ass; it's no surprise when he says and does shit like that, but the insult still knicks the Spanish God's pride a little.

The bar settles down against Sammy's chest, and it's uncomfortably heavy. He can't move it and he won't ask Ricky.

No way would he do that and pussy out.

He doesn't have to wait long before help arrives without request. It's Hager who comes to Guevara's aid, shoves Starks aside, grabs the bar and pulls it up while Sammy lifts in sync.

The bar is set in the rack while Guevara catches his breath and lets body relax. He sits up and looks at Hager, eyes wide with a conflicted mix of gratitude and embarrassment.

"I had it," Sammy insists. "I could handle it-"

"I saw you struggling," Hager says, and there's no judgment there. Just fact. 

But it's a fact Sammy doesn't want to acknowledge. "No, I really had it. Tell him, Ricky, tell him I had it."

Starks holds his hands up, palms facing outward. He's not getting in the middle of this, not with Hager; the guy's a fridge-built meatheaded heel. Not worth the pending consequences. Ricky takes his leave like the bullshitter he is.

"What-the-fuck-ever, man. I had it..." Sammy feels like he has something to prove beyond his pedigree. He's packed on a little weight, solid walls of muscle and broader shoulders, but he's still smaller than the other guys and simply being able to flip off the ropes isn't good enough.

He settles back on the bench and grabs the bar again. Without Starks weighing it down it's easy to lift. In fact, it's _too_ easy. He wants his muscles to rip and repair and build up stronger. Nothing rips if he's lifting bitch-weight.

Fuckin Allin could probably bench this.

The thought ignites a fire in his gut and he finds himself asking: "Jake, can you add another 50?"

Fifty pounds is nothing. He can handle another fifty.

Except Hager doesn't comply with the request. He pulls the bar away from the younger wrestler and racks it again. "Take a break. Lets see you on the ropes."

Guevara huffs indignantly. He doesn't want to be another rope monkey. He's good and agile and can do that shit, but he wants the physical strength of men at least ten years older than him. 

"You keep straining yourself and you'll pull something. Take a break," Hager's tone is hard and loud, sharp, like a dog sounding an alarm. He leaves no room for arguing and uses his larger size to get results; he picks up Guevara with comical ease and carries him away from the free weights. Tossing the him into the ring is about as easy as tossing a sack of potatoes.

Guevara's been at the game long enough that he instinctively rolls on impact with the mat. He's not showing off so he doesn't waste energy with a kip-up. He gets to his feet with minimal grace, and by the time he does Hager is entering, ducking between ropes and fixing his stance into something as controlled as it is lethal.

It's a testament to his work as an MMA fighter.

It would be downright intimidating if Sammy didn't know the man routinely wore SpongeBob themed underwear, could eat a whole box of Fruit Loops in one snack sitting, and enjoyed bad celebrity impressions.

That Hager came in for the first strike was not at all surprising; he's half-cocked and impulsive most days. He could have easily cleaned Guevara's clock but instead went in with a hard smack that had the kid pulling away and swearing under his breath. A bright red welt formed instantaneously and he stepped back until he hit the ropes, propelled himself forward with the intent to jump and land a dropkick.

But Hager catches Sammy and brings him in for a tight hold that would be inescapable if the two men weren't accustomed to stunting.

"Pull your legs up and go in for a DDT," Hager instructs. "Or lock your arms and choke me out."

Sammy should be mad for the coaching. He's not some newbie. He knows what he's doing. But the tone Hager uses along with the splash of warm breath along his collarbone stirs heat in Sammy's gut and brings a faint flush to his cheeks barely noticeable under the spray tan.

The Spanish God hoists himself up a little higher in the other man's grasp and gets an arm around his throat, locks his hold and squeezes.

Jake Hager's neck is thick, and Guevara can feel the steady draw of breath and bob of an Adam's apple when the man swallows. 

"Tighter," Jake says, and that one word, more of a growl than proper speech, is enough to completely derail Sammy's brain. He's momentarily stupefied. His senses come flooding back when he feels pressure on his forearm followed by wet heat.

Jake's teeth had made contact, not fully biting. His mouth, large enough to be congruent with the rest of him, is closed and suctioned to the younger wrestler's skin, and it's so bizarre.

Too bizarre for Guevara to say anything other than: "What the hell are you doing, man?"

Hager sucks a deep purple bruise before he removes his mouth.

It doesn't hurt, but it is awkward as fuck. 

Sammy looks down at what is essentially a hickey on his arm, and he's more confused than flustered.

"Seriously. What the hell?"

Hager doesn't commit an answer. Putting things into words, labeling actions and thoughts and feelings, that's complicated. Hager doesn't like to think too hard if he doesn't have to.

"My arm was in your mouth..."

Hager continued to neglect giving an answer. He does, however, set the young man down on his feet, grabs his hand and position it so the fingers are grouped together, then guides them into his mouth.

The fact that the blonde's mouth opens so wide is impressive. It's huge in a way that Sammy's never paid any mind to. The fact that Sammy's entire hand ends up in there...

Oh, God. Fuckin... _Dios mío_. Sammy can feel Jake's tongue against his wrist. He's pretty sure his knuckles scraped against the man's uvula, and his fingertips are tucked together and lodged in his throat.

How Jake isn't gagging, it's surprising.

Sammy experimentally wiggles his fingers and he can feel Jake swallow dryly around the digits. It's a unique feeling. Strange and a little exciting. He curls his fingers and attempts to make a fist. His appendages pull out of the throat and curl into the palm.

There's a pool of saliva between Jake's lower jaw and Sammy hand.

It's a warm and tight feeling. Guevara kinda wants to explore the new playground he's been invited to. He pulls his hand out; it's coated in a thin layer of spit. The air chills it quickly but it's not uncomfortable. He places his wet hand on Hager's cheek and asks: "Seriously, what are we doing?"

Hager slips his arms around the younger man. It's a loose and strangely comfortable hold. It reminds Sammy of how he held his ex girlfriend when things were new and exciting and they were going to be the power-couple that everyone admired.

He kinda misses her, but not really. If he thinks on it, he can admit that he missed having someone to hold and share things with. Instagram is a lot more fun when selfies include other people instead of just him and his cat.

He's stolen from his thoughts when Jake's stubble brushes along his jaw and the blonde's lips make cautious contact to the corner of Sammy's own mouth. It's not a direct mouth-on-mouth movement. It's careful and it allows Sammy an easy opportunity to turn his head either away from the kiss... or directly into it.

Guevara is indecisive at first but decides not to pussy out over something new. His mouth meets Hager's and everything in him burns electric. His heart thumps hard and fast, a nervous kind of energy. He forgets how to breathe- and how could he possible take a breath when he opens his mouth and suddenly he can _taste_ Jake?

Hager guides the smaller wrestler back until he's pressed against the padding of the turnbuckle. He pulls away from their softcore mouth-brawl in favor of taking a harsh breath, and then he's diving back in.

Sammy's gasping for air like a dying fish, half expecting another round of intense face-sucking, but instead he feels Hager simply lean in, nuzzle, stubble-scrape, and pant hot breath against his neck.

It has to be uncomfortable to bend at such an angle but Hager doesn't voice it. He just breathes and tucks his face into Sammy's neck. The Spanish God smells like sweat and remnants of cheap deodorant. 

"I wanna try something," Jake says, and his voice is a little breathy and a lot soft. It's not normal. It's... somehow private. He takes both of Guevara's hands in his own and guides them to rest atop the broad expansion that is his shoulders. "Hands here. Rub, touch, squeeze, leave them still. Whatever. If you feel okay, use your hands to let me know."

He waits a moment for his words to process.

Sammy's a little drunk on sensation and confusion but he nods. It's a simple task that's been asked. To show his understanding, his fingers dip and he applies pressure with his thumbs and the heels of his hands, like he's massaging a tense or cramped muscle. It's a soothing gesture. A positive one.

Jake takes it for what it is, and adds: "If anything goes too far or makes you uncomfortable, you can push me away, slap me, punch me. Just get the point across and try not to break my nose."

Sammy pulls back enough to look Jake in the eye. He doesn't say anything, afraid to break whatever spell is binding them. The rules are easy enough and he wants to follow them. To show his understanding, he snaps his wrist and lightly smacks Hager on the cheek before placing his hand back on the man's shoulder.

"Yeah, like that. Good boy. Keep your hands there unless I tell you." Jake presses a chaste kiss to the smaller man's cheek.

The praise has Sammy's mind in a pleasant space, floaty and warm. Any added contact filters through like a secondhand high. The blood in Sammy's veins is running hot and he needs some sort of outlet. His throat feels closed up and he can't make words. A whine slips out of his mouth and he'd be embarrassed if he'd been in the right headspace.

Besides, it's hard to be embarrassed when Jake's hand presses against Guevara's stomach and trails down, down, down... and cups against his sportswear. 

Sammy's eyes shut tight and he rubs his thumbs alongside Jakes shoulders. Signals are good, giving the _greenlight_.

Jake's hand moves slow, deliberate, testing the waters. It's new territory for him too, but he's not prudish enough to pretend it's weird or emasculating. He touches and traces and palms Sammy through his tiny little trunks.

Sammy answers by trailing a hand up to cup Hager's cheek. His palms are warm and sweaty, fingers twitching with nervous excitement. It's uncontrollable, the first time his hips jut forward with the unconscious desire for more of Hager's hand. The startling action leaves him bashful and blushing hard. He keeps his eyes shut and tries to use his hands to encourage the larger wrestler.

The message must be clear enough because Jake removes his hand and slots a leg between Sammy's. He pushes forward and leans in, squishing the Spanish God against the turnbuckle, their bodies flush against one another. His breath washes over Guevara's ear and he instructs with a strained voice: "Hey. You're hard. Get yourself off."

Sammy almost wants to cry when he hears those words. Because he _is_ hard and horny, and this is too new. He thinks he should be ashamed. Nevermind the fact that they are in a public training facility. He's suddenly scared and embarrassed and all too aware of everything. He shoves hard at Hager's shoulders and the blonde immediately steps back.

"Too fast?" Jake asks the question and instantly regrets it along with his actions.

Because Sammy's eyes are squeezed shut and tears are slipping through the corners.

Jake wants to leave and pretend this didn't happen. But he's liked the obnoxious wrestler for so long... And now he royally fucked up. He wants to turn away and just ignore the whole thing. 

But Sammy Guevara deserves better than that. 

So, Hager makes the decision to try... "Don't be a bitch. I'm just going to hold you." He's closes in with an embrace slower than Orange Cassidy drags his feet up an entrance ramp.

There's plenty of time for Sammy to tell him to fuck off.

He doesn't.

On the contrary, the younger wrestler draws his arms close and leans into the embrace, cheek resting against the defined chest. 

No one moves or speaks for what feels like an eternity while Sammy breathes deeply and gradually calms down.

"Hey, man, I'm sorry," he says-

-and Hager stops him there. "Don't be. I was too-"

-it's Guevara who interrupts next with: "I liked it."

"Oh..."

It's quiet after that. The heated moment well and truly lost but something else settling between them.

Understanding.

"It's weird and gross. It's gay shit, right?" Sammy's young and crude. He probably still says ' _no homo_ ' around his friends.

"Not gay," Hager says wisely, and there's a softness in his eyes that has no right to be there. "Submissive."

Somehow, that's even _worse_ , because Sammy's face crumples with shame and his stuttering breath means he's probably crying.

"It's not weak or gay," Hager tries again. "It's a kink."

Sammy sniffles, and scrubs a hand over his wet eyes. "Like weird porn and tentacles and-?"

Jake presses a kiss to Sammy's temple; he hopes it's comforting. The kid has a lot of growing up to do. 

"Like, if I gave you rules and a safe word, and you enjoy some light touching or a slap on the ass... I'd be your _Sir_ , and you could be my _Cub_..."

Jake leaves the explanation open. There's a lot more to it, but he doesn't want to unload on Guevara.

There's silence and breathing and a final sniffle before Sammy's voice squeaks out a bashful: " _Panda cub_. I got the hat for it and pandas are chill."

Jake huffs a little laugh and continues to hold the smaller man. "Alright. But we should go slow and talk things out first."

Guevara's hand shoots up and lands a loud clap to Hager's cheek. "Don't pussy out on me. If we're going to try this, we're doing it all the way. Skipping out on hand-holding and going right to the _adult_ stuff."

The larger man is older, more experienced, and a little baffled by how innocent the younger man really is. He considers this carefully before answering. "Slow down. We're watching a movie tonight. Popcorn and soda. Pajamas. My hotel room."

"Tentacle porn?" Sammy asks.

_Jesus, this kid..._

"Romantic comedy."

...

Later that night, Sammy Guevara shows up at Jake Hager's room with his panda hat, a pair of rubber gloves, two condoms (How does this work? Do they both need protection?), and what he considers a pair of sexy socks. As per instruction, he's wearing his version of pajamas- which consists of a Dragon Ball Z t-shirt and a pair of sweats.

Jake Hager has chips instead of popcorn and beer instead of soda. They both partake.

They watch The Peanut Butter Falcon. It's not a RomCom but it's interesting and Sammy keeps muttering the words to the song Actual Cannibal Shia LaBeouf because he likes the actor and thinks it's funny. 

Before falling asleep, Sammy's brain relents that he likes Jake being the big spoon.

Jake stays awake almost an hour after Sammy falls asleep. He likes holding the cub.

What comes next, it's hard to say. They'll try.


	2. No Bones

There's an old phrase that says something like: The more things change, the more they stay the same. And it's just as wrong as it is accurate.

Some things don't change. Other things do.

Guevara and Hager, something changed between them, and it's made their work together easier. There's an ease about them, an undeniable chemistry.

When Sammy's running late, Jake usually has an energy drink ready to hand him when he shows. And when Jake pulls off a good act or stunt and the crowd is shouting their boos or calling him an asshole, Sammy's there with a chest bump and a tongue-flicking, open-mouthed smile.

If anyone's noticed a change, they don't bring it up.

Jake and Sammy don't run around with rainbow flags or carry riding crops and gimp suits. They aren't that kind of freaky.

But Sammy does wear the panda hat and they've gone as far as some light roleplay and mutual masterbation.

They're both into it but neither are jumping the gun to get in there with anal. Just thinking about it gives Sammy a case of nervous laughter and his mouth spews lame jokes in a bad attempt to cover his nerves. And Jake understands the mechanics of it but isn't jumping down that hole until the younger man is ready.

They finish off a scene with the Inner Circle at AEW, Sammy's carrying around his vlog camera and waving to some excited fans, and Hager comes in to literally sweep him off his feet.

By now, it's not a big deal to be in the position, and Sammy throws a fist up to demand: "Onward, my valiant steed!'"

They ignore the surprised looks that come their way and Hager walks off with a decidedly loose jaw, babbling about how he's in the mood for tacos or something.

Back with the Inner Circle, Jericho sorta misses mentoring the cub, but he knows Jake is doing good with the kid, so he doesn't interfere.

Santana and Ortiz have a debate on whether or not those two are boning.

"You think everyone is boning," Ortiz throws out.

Santana shrugs. "Everyone is boning. Chris is boning Orange."

"No one's boning!" Jericho's a little miffed at the assumption. Not that his relationship with Cassidy isn't good. He just can't bring himself to take a dive into another man's chocolate factory.

-

Meanwhile, Guevara and Hager hit up a food truck for some greasy crap that resembles food, tastes amazing, and gives Hager an instant heartburn.

He doesn't focus on the heartburn though because the moment their food is gone he gets the smaller man pinned against the most exclusive (read; entirely too public) side of the food truck, and they're swapping spit and tasting remnants of cuisine. 

It's juvenile and sloppy and Jake is too old to get so much enjoyment out of something so trivial.

They pull apart and Sammy takes in fresh air while Jake's eyes haze over with a thousand-yard stare.

The blonde is thinking hard on something. 

Sammy isn't sure if he should let the man think or distract him. He decides to wait a moment or two to give Hager time to collect his thoughts, then cuts in.

"Hey, man, you with me?" When Sammy doesn't get a verbal reply he places his hands on Jake's shoulders and his fingers dig in for a deep massage. "Come back, man. Don't go off in your head like that."

Jake's eyes dart around at a dizzying speed before landing on Sammy and anchoring there.

"We meeting up later tonight, Samcub?" The petname comes without thought.

Sammy wrinkles his nose but the unmistakable pull of a smile is there. "Yes, sir. I have to see Chris for some advice on the next promo, but I can meet you around 8-ish..."

-

It's almost 10 pm when Guevara shows. He stumbles into Hager's stead laughing loud and talking louder. His face is bright and his eyes are glassy and he's clearly drunk off his ass.

Jake's more than a little pissed. He shoves Sammy on the couch and walks away before he ends up saying something regrettable.

He knows he's made the right decision when he hears Sammy call to him: "C'mon, Jake! Get yourself ass back here, man, I fuckin love you."

Jake keeps walking, his chest admittedly a little constricted.

They'll talk when Guevara sobers up.

Or not.

Hager doesn't feel much like talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone confused by Jericho and Orange as a pairing, it's a reference to my last story Bubbly Orange, which follows them through Mimosa Mayhem and showcases the beginning of a relationship.


	3. Crisis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for literal filth, bad decisions, consumption, distasteful photography, and a bit of dickservice.  
> Also, Hager's boner comment, legitimate words from his own mouth. I love gems like that.

The word _crisis_ comes to mind when Sammy Guevara takes time to really assess his life and circumstance.

He's got a great career, more money than he knows what to do with, and a level of fame that goes right to his ego and makes him feel invincible. And he'll upload vlogs, tap out tweets, and post pictures to share all this and more with his fans and haters alike.

Everyone wants to know what pizza toppings he likes and why his panda theme became a less prominent part of his in-ring persona. And yeah, he'll share all that and he'll _like_ all those positive comments that come his way.

But there are other things, things he won't open up about. Things he's smart enough not to say.

He doesn't dare leak how bad he hurt his back during his last match when he didn't land quite right. He sure as fuck hides that the twinge and ache has him eating over-the-counter meds like PEZ candy.

He keeps his mouth firmly shut about temptation: about the time he was cornered after-hours and told he could bulk up bigger, faster, easier, better... with the aid of injected horse steroids. He'd steadfastly declined because he's not a complete moron, but every time he works out he is reminded that he has to work that much harder to keep up with the meatheads that do take the cheap route.

He doesn't open up about how he walked away from so many good friends and essentially replaced them with people who would help him further his success.

He's had his moments where he should have put his foot in his mouth, and he's not uniquely proud of his faux pas.

He makes an effort though, to move forward.

To be better.

But he stops before getting too far because reality hits hard, and he's forced to acknowledge that he's almost thirty and still acting like he's 18.

He feels gut-punch sick when he considers this and understands that other people his age have families and have started a retirement plan. He doesn't have any plans beyond seeing how far his name and connections can carry him.

So he doesn't think on it.

Sammy Guevara is a Spanish God, Chris Jericho's protégé, and Jake Hager's panda cub.

The thing with Hager is another puzzle he needs to sort through. He doesn't fully get it. He understands it on a baser level, and he's done a little research in his free time, but the whole ordeal fulfills a need he didn't know he had.

Imagine strong, steady hands and a voice that matches, guiding and rewarding and coaxing and praising. It's an addictive cycle that affords Sammy a sort of liberation.

He likes that Jake can do this for him, take his brain somewhere new and exciting and alluring. And he likes the time they spend together, whether they're training or talking or getting off.

He figures they'll have to put some kind of label on what they're doing, eventually. But for now, he likes the ambiguity.

The only downside is, he's horny for Hager most of the time, and it's a moderate inconvenience when he's supposed to wrestle and Jake's running around with his shirt off and muscles bulgjng, and then there was that one interview where Jake explicitly said: "I'm rock hard with emotion right now. I've got a boner."

Sammy had laughed at the scandalous honesty, but he gets it. Boners happen. All the time. And there's not a ton of time to privately polish one off.

He keeps as professional as possible, when he needs to. First break, he makes a trip to the bathroom and snaps a dick pic to send to Jake. He's done this a number of times, even before they partnered up. It's not new. 

Hell, he's sent pics to a number of people. Darby Allin included. For shits and giggles. Because it's funny.

Some of the humor leaves when Sammy gets a dick pic in return. Hager's a beast, and Sammy's as envious as he is amazed. 

If things keep on between the two of them, he supposes he'll be taking that dick, but fuck, that's alarming.

He tries to make it less intimidating by ignoring the dick-in-ass aspect and simply thinks about it as sex. 

Sex isn't scary.

But Guevara is still unsure about where this relationship is going to end up. He feels like he's going to do something stupid and mess it up. It's bad enough he's been lying.

Lying is bad in relationships.

But that's what he's been doing. He doesn't need help with any promo shit. He's got his role figured out. But he does go to Chris and ask how some hardcore man-love works.

They bust out some Bubbly and put on some porn.

It's not at all sexy or helpful. And Jericho's main focus is pointing out the bad camera angles and how he would have run the production.

It gets more awkward when Orange Cassidy comes in, takes one look at the tv and asks: "Is this the one with the gay cavemen? The lesbian pirate one has a better plot."

Sammy should have gone straight to Hager's after.

He doesn't. 

He drives around aimlessly for 30 minutes, pulls out his vlog camera to show some insane traffic he narrowly avoided, and stops in to see _The Guy_.

It's a real thing, when he says he ' _knows a guy_ ' or he's ' _got a guy_ '. He's got at least one obscure _Guy_ in several major cities, and each offers different benefits or hookups.

Chris and the guys with AEW have their roles with promoting, but Guevara's got a reputation as one of the fastest rising stars in the industry, and part of that is, _he knows a guy._

The Guy knows who Guevara is. Everyone knows the Spanish God, aka Le Sex God [in training].

Sammy doesn't even have the guy's name though.

It's shady at best, but it hasn't been an issue. 

The Guy is a genius. Goes by different names all over the web, makes all kinds of posts to help spread names and dates. There's so much controversy and hype, and Sammy has been able to utilize that thus far.

He knocks on Guy's door, has no idea if he's there or not.

But Guy faithfully answers, and the door opens up to assault Guevara with the stench of weed and alcohol and musk.

Sammy instinctively covers his nose and mouth. "I don't need to breathe in that shit," he says. It's neither proper nor polite, but neither is that smell. 

"Relax, buddy. What do you need?" Guy's half dressed and his hair is too long and he looks worse than any burnout Sammy's ever seen.

Sammy isn't sure what he needs. He's stressed about life, he doesn't know how to act his age, and he doesn't understand what he's doing with Hager.

Guevara confesses none of this. Instead he claps Guy on the shoulder and acts like they really are buddies. "Life, man, y'know?" He pulls the next line out of his ass, but it's not entirely false, so he runs with it. "And, dude, I got all this panda merch, and the PandaSams just aren't selling like I thought they would. But that's stupid, right? Who doesn't love pandas?"

Guy sways a little on his feet, coughs and hacks into his own hand leaving traces of blood and spit in his palm.

Sammy makes a note not to shake his hand. Ever.

"I can sell em. Take your shirts and PandaSams, sell them as a set without specifically targeting fans."

It makes sense but it also has Sammy feeling bummed. Part of the panda merch idea is to give something to the fans that have helped support him along his journey. 

"You look stressed, Sammy. Come in, have a drink, and I'll put a word out about your panda shit."

There's a jarring moment that has Guevara seizing on the inside, but it passes just as fast. He takes a deep breath of semi-clean-ish air before stepping inside Guy's home. 

The dim lights hurt his eyes and the smoke content makes him cough and bury his nose in the neckline of his shirt.

"What do you want to drink?" Guy's playing host, but he's not very good at it.

Stepping over a dead rat and almost landing his foot on a questionable stain has Guevara ready to turn and bolt, but he sucks it up and buries his discomfort. "Water is fine," he finally answers. His throat burns a little, agitated by the stale atmosphere.

Sammy watches Guy grab a glass out of a sink pile of what appears to be unwashed dishes. There's a lipstick print on the rim of the glass. The water taps turn on and what liquid comes out... is brown like fountain pop. Sammy's stomach feels sick just looking at it. 

"No. Uh, no water, man. Maybe something else." Sammy should leave. Now. He's not comfortable here. His skin feels itchy and his eyes are starting to burn.

"No," Guy answers back, turning off the water and putting the glass back in the sink. "Big boy like you deserves a man's drink, right?" Guy goes to the fridge, opens it up, and...

...there's no food. Just condiments and bottles and jars.

Guy grabs a jar. It's clear and has a big black _X_ painted over the side.

It _looks_ like water in it.

It's given to Sammy, and he unscews the lid and- it's _not_ water. It stinks. The smell alone clears his nasal passages and starts a trail of fire down his throat and into his stomach.

Guy watches him with an intense stare. "Go on. Take a few drinks. Don't hurt my feelings."

Sammy doesn't give a shit about the other man's feelings. He just needed somewhere to go for a few, somewhere he wouldn't be reminded of his own personal issues, so that nixed any of his work friends.

Still, Sammy Guevara is a Spanish God. He's well over 21, and he can take a drink and still be responsible.

...except he can't. 

He holds his breath and brings the rim of the jar to his mouth, takes a swallow, and another, and another, head tilted back and eyes squeezed shut. It tastes worse than it smells. Half the jar is drained before he puts it down hard on a table. If he wasn't sick before, he certainly is now. He swallows down the first rise of bile and wipes his mouth with an uncoordinated swipe of the hand that nearly misses.

The haze that settles over his mind comes fast and thick. Sammy has to lean against the counter to keep himself upright. 

"Buddy, you don't look so good." Guy sounds too nice.

Maybe it's the shitty alcohol addling Sammy's perception? 

"Lets sit you down and I'll make that advertisement for you." Guy's arms slip around Sammy and he guides the stumbling young wrestler to sit down on an old mattress in the corner.

"I'm gonna go... Man, like, I gots ta go. Gotta meet a friend." Sammy knows he needs to go. He shouldn't have come, nor drank some suspicious liquor from a jar. He wants to get up and go; his brain urges it but his body feels heavy and uncoordinated.

Before he knows it, Guy's hands are on him, tugging at his shirt and pulling it over his head. There's the flash of a camera and Guy's hands come back to move Sammy around like he's posing a mannequin.

Mannequins are funny and a little creepy and the comparison makes Guevara giggle.

The camera flashes a few more times and Guy reaches for Sammy's pants.

Sammy's brain kicks in enough that he throws his hand forward to get Guy to stop. The heel of his hand slams directly into Guy's nose and there's a resulting crunch when the cartilage breaks. The Spanish God doesn't feel too Godlike as he rolls off the mattress and tries to get his feet beneath him.

Guy's got a bloodied broken nose and is shouting obscenities but doesn't try to stop Guevara from grabbing his shirt and making a clumsy exit.

It takes too long but Sammy is eventually out the door and trying to open his car door.

He shouldn't drive. He can hardly focus enough to grab the handle.

He pulls out his phone and with a bit of a struggle he manages to call an Uber.

The car he'd been driving is a rental. He'll have someone pick it up later.

He gets a ride, overpays, and goes straight to Jake Hager's stead without any thought other than: ' _this guy gets me; I love this guy. My homo-dude-bro-Sir-man_.'

He can't help the way his feet barely know what they're doing and his mouth runs like dirty fountain-pop water from a rusty tap with gurgling pipes. 

He's just happy to see the blonde fridge-built wrestler. It's a good way to end a rather shitty evening.

He falls asleep shortly after hitting the couch and loudly proclaiming his love for Jake Hager.

-

Morning comes, and it's not really morning so much as it is late afternoon. Sammy wakes to insanely bright lights and the blurred view of Jake counting under his breath while he runs through a basic chest expansion regimen.

The young man feels like he's going to hurl, but it has nothing to do with the view and everything to do with his own stupidity.

"Fuck me sideways, man" Sammy mutters, tossing a hand over his eyes like a shield.

"Not while you're drunk and not while you have that attitude," Hager responds when he finishes a set of chest presses.

There's a sheen of sweat coating Jake's body and he's shirtless and Sammy parts his fingers to take a look because... _damn_.

Everything rushes back to Guevara then. He's young and dumb sometimes; he gets away with it, but then... he shouldn't. He's old enough to own up to his mistakes. It's just hard. Like, Pain Games and genital mutilation- that kind of hard.

But he should, so he will... And...

"Jake, about last night-" he's not sure what to say or how to say it. But it needs said, right?

Thankfully, Hager has the answers. "Shut up. You shut your damn mouth right there."

And Sammy does shut up. It's hard to argue with a brick wall.

"You're smarter than that shit you pulled last night. And if you're in your right mind, you should be corrected."

Sammy sits up, knees wide and shoulders hunched. He's tired, but not as sick as he expected. His gut clenches with interest at what the other man is proposing, so he mulls it over for half a second and responds with a simple "Yes, Sir."

Jake grabs a towel and rids himself of some of his perspiration.

It's a little disappointing because some twisted part of Sammy wanted to get his hands on that warm sticky-sweaty-salty-moist skin.

Jake grabs a chair, pulls it over and takes a seat. He waves Sammy over with the same ' _come at me'_ hand gesture he'd use to taunt an opponent, and the younger wrestler complies albeit slowly.

Sammy gets up and takes the few steps necessary to get over to Hager, and then Jake pulls the smaller man into his lap.

Jake cards his hand through his cub's hair and his nails lightly graze the boy's scalp. It's soothing and comforting and has Sammy relaxing against Jake.

Jake rubs at Sammy's back and shoulder, slides a hand down his arm and then moves to rest it along his shirt-clad abdomen. 

"You owe an apology," Jake says. His tone has that horrible softness to it.

It's too kind, too warm, caring. It makes Sammy feel so much younger than he has any right to feel. And this breeds guilt and shame and vulnerability, and a little bit of neediness and adoration.

Fuck Jake Hager for getting to Sammy so easily.

And fuck Sammy for not wanting that to stop.

Sammy goes to apologize. The words are like acid and he wants to spit it all out for some sort of cleansing ritual that doesn't exist or make sense, but he feels like rapture is upon him just for the chance to listen to Jake's command.

All that, and he really is sorry and filled with regret for his previous actions.

"I'm sorry-" He tries, he really does.

Jake's hand comes up, meaty fingers pinch at Sammy's ear and give a punishing tug.

"'Ow, fuck! Why-?"

"Samcub, don't apologize to me. Apologize to yourself."

It's a strange phenomenon but those words hurt. They sting and they stab and there's a hollow ache that makes Sammy feel like he's going to collapse inward and cease to exist.

"I'm sorry," he says the words, and they feel hollow and sound just as empty. He doesn't understand what mind games are at work or what headspace he's slipping into. But he knows his eyes are getting wet and he might be crying.

And Jake's arms are suddenly around him, so fully and all-encompassing, and he feels like... if he just suffocated and died right there, he'd be okay with that.

Jake Hager's arms and lap would be a magnificent tomb.

He'd be happy to rot there.

It's when Sammy feels warm breath and the press of stubble and lips to his temple that he realizes he feels a little better, lighter, less drained. 

Jake works miracles like that, and Sammy would worship him for that alone if religion were a focal point.

When Hager's hand works his cub's pants open and fishes inside for a handful of chubbing meaty flesh, Sammy closes his eyes, arches his back, and swears under his breath.

"Be good for me, Samcub."

"Yessir."

And Sammy is good, and Jake is good.

And for a moment in time, everything is good.


	4. WIP ARTWORK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STILL blocking in colors. Lots of work left to do!


	5. Hippos and Carrots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no regrets! Except for typos!

Those hippos are hungry.

"Gimme some of them white balls!" It's Guevara who makes the exclamation while his hands toggle the little black levers.

He's playing Hungry Hungry Hippos with Hager and they're each piloting two hippos, both competing for the larger meals.

It's a child's game and Hager's hands dwarf the colorful animals. Sammy has an advantage there, but the young man's enthusiastic cracks and subsequent laughter make it worthwhile.

"This is fine, but one of these days I owe you a real man's game." Jake's comment comes off as more cheeky than condescending.

They continue to mash the levers until all the little white food balls have been gathered.

Sammy wins by a visible landslide but Hager insists they count anyway.

Sammy touches each ball as he counts in his head, and Jake interrupts to tell him "Count out loud."

The younger wrestler's head is angled low towards the hippos; he rolls his eyes up to look at Jake and he licks his lips before complying: "One-"

"In Spanish," the tone of command drops an octave and sends a pleasant shiver down Guevara's spine.

"Fuck, man... Uno... Dos..." he doesn't get any further with counting before the game is pushed aside and the little balls end up rolling all over the place like a bag of tossed marbles.

Jake's mouth connects with Sammy's and the larger man's hands rest on a narrow set of hips.

Hager has this thing where he consistently opens his mouth too wide during the kiss, and it's like he's trying to swallow Guevara's face. In this scenario, Hager _is_ the Hungry Hippo! Ever resourceful, Sammy's found a way to work around it; he nips and bites at Jakes lip to reel him so that the kiss works for them both.

It's one of those instances where Sammy's teeth come down on the thick tissue of Jake's lower lip when the older man pulls away and announces he wants to try something new.

In Sammy's experience, new is usually good, so he's as curious as he is eager. "Yeah, so, what do you have in mind?"

Hager levels him with a look, and that's all the cub needs to know he hadn't responded as he usually would for their agreed roles.

It's instinct that has Guevara pursing his lips to keep from saying anything stupid or out of turn. His eyes drop and he looks for a focal point on the floor.

Hager steps away and locates an equipment bag. He fishes through the front pocket and comes up with a strip of fabric branded repeatedly with _Le Champion_. He folds the fabric appropriately during his leisurely walk back to his cub, and then it's a matter of pressing the length of material over Sammy eyes, shushing him when he almosts makes a verbal protest, and he ties it snugly behind the younger man's head.

"You okay? That feel alright?" Part of being good to his cub is making sure they don't push too far into uncomfortable territory. So, he asks. He has to. They don't have an official safe word yet. 

Blindfolded, Sammy can't see a thing. It's not a big deal, not overly exciting- at least it isn't until he feels Jake's hand on his cheek.

The hand is large and warm and it scares the fuck out of the blinded sub. "What the fuck? Warn me next time..." Sammy laughs a little and calms himself by sheer will. It's weird not knowing what Jake Hager is doing or where and when he might touch him.

"We need a safe word. Something you wouldn't say unless it's an emergency." Jake wants to get that out of the way, before they try anything too new.

Sammy shrugs. He doesn't know. So he says the first thing that comes to mind. "Banana."

"...Banana?"

"Banana."

Hager sighs, and there's a significant amount of breath expelled. "I can't take you seriously with _Banana_. Try something else."

"Turkey?" Sammy tries again. "Chicken soup?"

"What is it with food? Are you hungry?"

"Hardy. We'll use Hardy. Huge turn off. Big red flag."

Hager reluctantly agrees. Because anything is better than Banana. When he cards his fingers through Sammy's hair, it's almost sweet how the Spanish God leans into the touch like a needy child or a spoiled pet.

Hager's going to wreck the cub. 

And Sammy's going to thank him for it. 

Sight adequately removed, Sammy is left with his other senses straining to pick up the slack. His ears pick up every breath and shift of clothing, his own heart is a drum, and there's even a tiny sound when he blinks and his eyelashes scrape the material of the blind. His hyper focus breeds a little anxiety, but it's all soothed away when he _feels_ Hager.

There's the puff of warm breath and the encompassing heat of that giant hand. It's grounding and it's a sensation Sammy wants more of.

Jake is slow and cautious with what he does, always giving his Samcub a chance to back out. His hands grab at the cub's Inner Circle shirt and tug.

Slow.

Slower.

Too slow.

Fuck.

The shirt slides up along Sammy's abs and chest and the material catches on his nipples just enough to have them perk up. By the time the shirt is actually removed, he's already let out a groan and his dick is twitching with interest.

There's a nervous bout of excitement at play as he wonders how far Hager is planning to go. 

Jake places a hand on Sammy's chest, feels the smooth expansion of skin over muscle, feels the constant thrumming of a beating heart beneath. His fingers trace along the collarbone and then move to pinch at a little nub. Those nipples are cute in the way a dog is cute. He uses both hands to give attention to both little perky bumps. He rubs and pinches and pulls, and he even gives one an experimental twist. He rests his hands flat against Sammy's defining pecs and his fingers are long enough to reach along sensitive obliques.

Sammy's breath hitches and changes pace, and really, he's getting impatient. But he trusts Jake, so he doesn't complain.

One moment Jake's hands are there and the next moment, they're just gone.

Sammy mourns the loss with a heavy heart but he doesn't despair for long, because then Jake's hands are working his pants undone and pulling them down; his underwear goes with it and his nethers are exposed to the air so fast that he needs a moment to catch his breath.

The transition from slow to quick has Sammy feeling a little nauseous and uneasy, and he suddenly wants to _hear_ Hager talk. Any word would do. He just needs that little bit of assurance...

And he gets it when he hears: "You, Sammy, you are a work of art."

The cub blushes so fiercely, he's pink from his ears to his shoulders.

Guevara has his scars and marks of imperfection, but they are minimally intrusive and abstractly decorative. 

It really is a beautiful sight. Jake wants to to savor it. But he doesn't want to keep Sammy waiting. He's not that selfish.

Jake's mouth comes in to assault Sammy's neck, and the feeling is good, warm, sensual, scratchy with stubble. The lack of sight only seems to amplify the sensation, and Sammy has to wrap his arms around Jake to keep his knees from giving out.

The only disappointment is that the larger man is still fully clothed.

Sammy is astutely aware of lips and stubble along his jaw and teeth near his jugular. There's a twisted desire inside that has been lit and burns bright enough to be okay with the idea that Jake could bite a chunk out of him with that monster sized mouth. A denim clad leg slots itself between his bare thighs and the contact is almost maddening. He throws dignity aside and bucks up for a dry hump.

Hager's proud of his cub being so well behaved, so responsive with minimal talking.

It's not a rule that they've set, but Sammy's naturally submissive inclination isn't very talkative. It's a drastic change from his typical behavior and Jake is grateful that he gets to see this side of the cub.

With careful maneuvering, Jake guides the horny little bear to his bedroom and lays him out on the bed.

It's disorienting for the cub to acknowledge a change in surroundings but he overcomes the shock by grabbing his Sir's shirt and pulling the man on top of him like a big blanket... or a hungry predator.

Sammy can't see Jake's face to know what he's feeling or thinking. It's a downside to the blindfold and he's tempted to take it off.

He doesn't.

Hager settles himself so that his knees are on either side of his cub. His hands and mouth all but worship the young man like the Spanish God he is. He takes his time moving lower, sliding his knees down as smoothly as he can so as not to disturb the writhing young thing beneath him. He makes a point to nuzzle and scrape his stubble along the carved abs; the sensitive skin reddens from the abrasion. Jake tongues at the dipping navel and nips at the skin just below it. 

Sammy's dick isn't particularly impressive in length or girth but Hager treats it like it is, gives it a few generous tugs to let his cub know his intent.

No need to bruise an ego in the bedroom.

Honestly, Jake isn't a dick guy. At no point in his life has he found himself wanting to touch any man-meat other than his own. But he's pretty sure it's important to let his partner know that it's not a deterrent. 

He takes it for what it is. It's an experience and it's part of Sammy Guevara. It's that line of reasoning that helps him mentally prep himself for a cockslurp. But not this time.

When Guevara throws his hands down and catches Hager's hair with the notion to encourage Jake to give him a good blow, Hager completely bypasses his cub's erection. 

Jake slips a hand under Sammy's leg, catches it under the knee and forces it back towards his cub. 

Sammy takes his cues well and releases his Sir's hair, holds his leg up at an angle that leaves potential for access without leaving him wide open and assuming.

They haven't strayed that far yet, but maybe...?

Or not.

Sammy's insides seize up startlingly quick when he feels Jake move and hears the snap if a plastic cap. There are so few things it could be. His breath comes in fast and deep and he tucks a hand into the bed sheets, literally grasping for some form of support. 

When Jake's hands are on Sammy's thighs, it's not that bad, even with the lube lending a weird new wet feeling. It's when a slick digit traces along his ass crack- doesn't even touch his hole- that Sammy decides he can't handle it. 

Not today. Nothing in his ass.

The cub throws his leg down and scoots back faster than he thought possible. "Hardy. Hardy. Nope. Fuck, no. Hardy. Matt Hardy in a golf cart..." He spit out a mantra as he sits up and tugs his blind off. In the back of his mind he wonders if Hager will be disappointed or angry at him for being a tease and a cockblock. However, when the blindfold is off, Sammy is greeted with the view of Jake wiping his hands off and looking entirely too casual about it.

"Are you okay?" Jake's asking.

It's a little relieving.

But Sammy feels like he should be asking that instead. After all, the blonde puts up with a lot of bullshit from him, the least Sammy could do is let him get a knuckle in there... right?

When Sammy didn't answer outright, Jake moved to sit beside him. Close but not touching, in case his cub wanted space. "I'm fine going at your pace. If you're not ready, then I'm not ready either."

Sammy looks around the room, refusing to look at his partner. "I want to. It's just hard."

Jake shifts and looks mildly uncomfortable for a moment before asking: "Would it help if I let you do it to me?" He's genuinely trying, and the offer speaks volumes.

The expression that befell Sammy's face was priceless, wide eyed and horrified. "Please, just, no... I don't think... No, I don't want to put anything in your ass. It's a little too gay for me, man."

The look Hager sends his way is unreadable. It's not at all reassuring. His lacking response is worse. When he wordlessly slips off the bed, heads to the bathroom and starts the shower, Sammy is sure he messed up bad.

He just isn't sure how.

Or if he should do something to make up for it.

He looks down at the blindfold in his lap and his insides twist and clench a bit more when he realizes that it belongs to Chris. He's not sure if that's supposed to be a joke or not. He tosses it aside and gets his bare (bear?) ass off the bed and collects his clothes. Once dressed, he grabs his phone and thumbs through his notifications.

He's tagged in a shit ton of posts, many of them pertaining to online Celeb Inquirers. He ignores them in favor of shooting a text to his Papa Bear.

Guevara: _SOS_

Jericho: _?_

Guevara: _Can't 🍆_

Jericho: _?_

Guevara: _Hay banging is gard._

Guevara: _Gay banging* Hard*_

Jericho: _No shit._

Guevara: _Help? Come on, Papa._

Jericho: _..._

Guevara: 🥺

Chris doesn't text back.

Guevara's phone rings. His expectations are low but he answers and is greeted with slow heavy breaths. It's very off-putting until a voice cuts in with-

"Get some Vaseline and a carrot..."

Oh, God. Sammy wants to smash his phone or hit his head on something. Or both. Maybe break his phone with his own face like a martial artist iconically busts boards.

Because that weird pervert talking on the other line is Orange Cassidy.

"Vaseline and a carrot. Practice sticking that up there."

Sammy's reluctant but finds himself asking: "Why use a carrot?"

He can practically hear a lazy half-smirk through the phone as a long drawn breath precedes: "because it's not from a sex shop and carrots are orange."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was gonna write a whole awkward first-time smut scene but decided to put it off til a later chapter.  
> Plus, sex advice from Orange? Why not?
> 
> ALSO, Samcub WIP has been added to the artwork (ch4). I have a ton of work left to do on it, but it's coming along! Check it out if you haven't already!


	6. Stand Alone

Burning. Choking. Breathing fire and huffing smoke like a mythical creature. This is how Hager feels as he works himself over. Everything burns hot with frustration and exertion. His chest is tight and his muscles are spasmodic. He goes from weights to cardio, sweat dripping.

Everything hurts. Sore, cramping, slowing down. He doesn't want to quit.

Any amount of hurt he's feeling now, it's nothing compared to how he feels on a deeper level... 

He hasn't seen his cub in almost a week.

Sammy hasn't answered his phone or replied to spam texting emojis.

Jake's not sure what this avoidance means. He clenches his teeth so hard that his jaw has a tingling sensation that borders pain.

He doesn't wrap his hands when he throws punches at the old sandbag. His knuckles split and it's almost satisfying. He punches and jabs, goes in for a bob-and-weave and a solid one-two, duck, and uppercut. He lands hard kicks and absorbs the recoil.

His lungs burn. There's a volcanic monster inside him and he can taste the ash.

He rounds on the bag for another combo.

He goes at it systematically, then changes it up a little, and then keeps at it until he is physically drained enough that his hits barely qualify for what they are.

He wraps his arms around the bag and rests his forehead against it. 

He's so tired. All the time. 

And he hates that holding the damn punching bag reminds him of the last time he held Sammy.

-

Sammy's doing squats in his own abode, trying to keep in shape while also giving himself time to think. The solidarity helps him clear his head a little. But it's not nearly enough.

He'll be seeing Jake at Dynamite later. It's unavoidable. He just wishes he wasn't being such a coward over everything.

He puts the bar down and rubs at his shoulders. Everything is tight. He'd give his left nut for a good rub down and a little TLC.

He grabs himself a bottle of CORE water and takes a seat, glances over at his neglected phone like it had personally offended him.

He owes an explanation, at the very least. An apology, maybe. But nothing that comes to mind seems like it's good enough.

He should at least try, make an effort, show that he's committed.

He uncaps and takes a drink of his water, recaps and sets it aside.

A knock at the door has his gut rolling.

He's not ready to talk to Jake yet. He just needs a couple more hours to get his head together. Still, he goes to answer... unlocks and opens the door-

-and there's no one there.

But there is _something_ there. Just outside his door, sitting at his feet, is a novelty PandaSam with a card attached.

A little curious, Sammy reaches down, picks up the panda plush and reads over the card.

_Youre a Star._

It's lame at best, probably a joke that didn't land or maybe a gift from someone. 

He steps back inside, tosses the PandaSam and note on the bed next to his phone and decides to go for a walk to waste some time. Maybe he'll meet up with Ricky, Marko, or Kip. Whoever isn't too busy. He just wants to pal around a bit. It's been a shitty week.

He slaps his cap on backwards and slips on a pair of shades, pulls on a pair of shoes and is ready to go.

He doesn't take his phone when he heads out.

Upon coming into view of his rental car, he stops in his tracks and is confused/irritated/pissed at realizing the car has been vandalized; the windshield busted and the hood is crudely spray painted with a big red star. He walks closer to inspect the damage and angrily kicks at the the car door. The action does nothing curb his turmoil but it does hurt his foot a little.

His mind briefly goes back to the lame note. It doesn't take a detective to see a connection. Which means the vandal had also knocked on his door minutes ago... and is likely still nearby.

Sammy steps away from the car and looks around cautiously, reaches to his pocket for the phone he didn't bring.

When he turns to head back inside to retrieve his phone, intent on calling and finding out what he's supposed to do about the car, he's not ready for the metal bar that cranks him in the side of the head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bear with me. Short chapter with abrupt ending but more is coming.


	7. Uploading...

A buzz, a steady chime, an obnoxious ring. White noise. Static. That horrible underwater haze where everything blurs together and seems slow and distant.

Guevara opens his eyes but can't focus enough to make sense of anything visual. He can taste the bitter tang of blood. His heart pounds and his entire body feels heavy and sluggish like it's moving through quicksand.

"Wha's 'append?" He slurs out the question; his tongue feels thick and dry, almost swollen; it takes a conscious effort to keep his teeth from clipping it. For a few minutes, he simply breathes and tries to gain a better level of awareness. The thought of the word _Level_ has his mind connecting a reference to _Power Level_ , and he associates that with _Over 9000_. It makes him laugh, and the sound comes out funny, pitched high and a little wheezy. It's hard for him to recognize that the sound is his own.

He flexes his fingers and touches blades of dewey grass. It's a unique sensation. Everything smells... wet, if _wet_ has a smell. He smells dirt and earth, and it's as unpleasant as it is uniquely fresh and cleansing.

When some of the fog clears from his head, he rolls onto his stomach, gets his hands beneath him so he can push himself up. He doesn't get far before a weight in the shape of a foot comes down hard on his back. His arms give out and he flattens against the ground; his chin digs a little into moist dirt and he's glad he isn't stuck laying facedown in a pit of mud.

Where he is, it's wet and grassy with bare patches of dirt and rock, not at all like the concrete jungle he'd been in previously. His arms are cold with water droplets and his pants are damp.

The foot on his back doesn't let up. 

"Fame is a bitter pill to swallow, Sammy. And you, you're a rising star. A superstar, and eventually a falling star." The voice is familiar but the Spanish God can't quite place it. "Your name and picture will be everywhere, like one of those milk-carton-kids... except people will actually _look_ for you." 

Sammy swallows around a case of cotton-mouth and tries to roll out from under the foot. Just as he starts to move the weight is lifted and a kick is delivered to his ribs. He's slower than he wants to be as he pulls himself to his knees and places a hand over the point of impact. "Fuck you, man," he gets the words out with a clarity that seems boosts his esteem and wits. "I gotta be on D-Dynamite tonight. I don't have time for-" he cuts himself off when he finally gets enough of a look around to process everything.

He's in a grassy area that's vast and empty as far as he can see; he has no idea where he is, and it's getting dark enough that he very well could be late already.

Chris and the rest of the Inner Circle are going to be pissed if he can't play his role. And Jake Hager- fuck, Jake is going to think Sammy's still avoiding him, which isn't entirely false. And he won't be there to hold up cards during picture-in-picture.

He's going to let everyone down over one moron getting a lucky shot at him.

"I don't have time for this." Sammy gets to his feet. He's not as steady as he'd like but he's not going to just sit pretty and let some asshole screw up everything he's worked for. He looks at his attacker and potentially abductor and the mere sight of the guy makes his teeth itch.

Because, of all the loonies out there, he's been assaulted by _Guy_. Mr Obscurity himself. His sideman promoter and sales booster. 

"You're such a... fuckin... slimeball, you asshole." Sammy's words aren't clever, but he forgives the matter because he's wet and he's pretty sure his head either is or was bleeding. And he really wants to knock some sense into this bozo. His hands tuck into fists and he takes on an offensive stance he's sure Hager would be proud of.

No pulled punches or stunted kicks. No stunts or gimmicks. He rolls his shoulders and jumps a couple times to get blood circulating. There's no time for a proper warmup.

Yeah, he's gonna clock this fucker and get his ass to Dynamite, and he's going to have one helluva story to tell.

Or at least he would.

If Guy hadn't been too casual and carefree just standing there. And if Guy hadn't raised a hand to reveal a shiny little pistol.

Upon seeing the night's sparse light gleam off of the firearm, Sammy ceases his prefight hustle. It's a disheartening situation. "So, what? You're gonna shoot me? Is this for money? Dude, Guy, I got money..."

It's a terrible plea. He doesn't have any faith in it but he has to try something.

Guy shrugs and clicks open the chamber to show the shells inside. It's almost like a scene in a movie.

Unreal, out of body. The haze in Sammy's head isn't all the way gone but he's coherent and alert enough that he doesn't want to be shot.

Speaking of movies... Guy asks just that topic of Guevara. "Do you like movies?"

It puts Sammy on edge. The first thing that comes to mind is the original Scream, and that was a slasher film where a popular pre-kill line is: _What's your favorite scary movie?_

The Spanish God tries to think fast and witty but all he comes up with is: "Romantic comedies, I love a little RomCom." It makes him think of watching The Peanut Butter Falcon with Jake. And fuck, he misses the big guy so acutely that his insides curl in on themselves.

"Do you want to make a movie?" Guy's got this super creep vibe, standing there with his shirt unbuttoned, his hair all scraggly, and a gun still in hand.

Sammy's not sure what to say or how to answer. Nothing good can possibly come from agreeing, but denial could land him a bullet. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, breathes evenly and tries to keep it together. "I dunno, man... I'm not much of an actor." Sammy's lying through his teeth, but what choice does he have?

Guy lowers the gun long enough to kneel beside what appears to be a black garbage bag. He fishes through and comes up with an item that is startlingly familiar. He stands at full height and re-trains the gun back at the young wrestler's chest. Guy's other hand now brandishes what appears to be Sammy's very own vlog camera. "I hear you like making little movies and putting them online. You should make one now."

Sammy itches to correct Guy, tell him that he doesn't make movies; he just records and uploads content for the fans. But he doesn't want to be introduced to a bullet. So, when Guy tosses the camera, Sammy catches it and agrees: "Yeah, okay, so we can do that. Fuck, like, what should I...-?"

"If that camera isn't on in thirty seconds..." Guy leaves the threat open.

Sammy doesn't test him. No need to risk it when the bastard has already gone to such lengths. He fumbles with his camera and sets it to record, then extends his arm and leans for a good viewing angle; there's a mean cut and a smatter of dried blood from his initial crank to the head. "Hey, everyone. This is _Vlog Number_ \- fuck, I don't know. It's not my usual upload... Things have been kinda crazy. It's getting late, and I think I am missing Dynamite..." he makes a point to glare accusingly at his abductor.

Guy grabs the camera from Guevara and the young wrestler lets out an indignant ' _What the fuck, man?_ '

Guy angles the camera down towards the ground and speaks loud and clear. "Hello, everyone watching and listening in. Sammy Guevara is a good friend of mine. But you see, he just isn't as blown up as he thinks he should be. You aren't buying his dumb t-shirts and toy pandas. And it makes him sad." There's a pause before Guy directs his attention at the young wrestler, points the camera at him and says: "Show them how sad you are, Sammy. Show them."

It's embarrassing, really. Sammy feels ridiculous, standing in the dark wearing damp clothes, being filmed at literal gunpoint. He looks down and kicks a stray rock. "Yeah, guys. And girls." He makes a point to be mindful. If this is his last video, he doesn't want to look like a jackass. "I'm, uh, I guess I'm... sad? Buy a t-shirt. It could maybe save my life." He tries to laugh but it comes off as stiff and uncomfortable.

The camera is rotated to show the gun. It's shiny enough to be caught in full detail. "That's not all," Guy says for the camera's benefit. "Also available, you'll be able to buy Limited Edition, never before seen photographs. The quality is good; I took them myself." He seems bullheaded and proud of his declaration.

Sammy scoffs at that. "Photos? Wait. What the hell are you getting on about?" It's a valid question.

The camera is dropped and gets a lens full of wet grass. It catches the unmistakable sound of a gun going off.

And then... nothing.

The video is uploaded a few hours later.


	8. I Botta, I Botta Shirt

It's a harrowing experience, the kind that breeds as much presumption as it does uncertainty, to acknowledge that the youngest member in their faction was not only absent for an event but is also perpetually unreachable. Every member of the Inner Circle along with their extended allies have tried through a number of platforms and social media, and all have turned up unsuccessful.

The Inner Circle rendezvous at Jericho's condo for further discussion. Santana is gathering snacks while Ortiz is passing around drinks.

Chris is concerned for what this means for his self-assigned charge. He loves the kid, and this situation- not knowing- it's got him feeling like a father whose son has just gone off to fight an unwinnable war. It's a ridiculous comparison but he can't help the feeling. He declines the Bubbly that Ortiz tries to slip his way. This stress is going to give him a damn ulcer.

Jake Hager is especially quiet on the matter while everyone else throws around ideals and debates for their current lack of Sammy. He won't say as much, but the possibility comes to mind, that maybe his less than stellar last encounter with the young wrestler might have opened grounds for polarization: maybe the discomfort has Sammy taking avoidance to a whole new level, and it's all Jake's fault. He doesn't want to dwell on it, so he pushes the thought down and buries it deep.

Santana is the least opinionated on the matter; he has his own personal theory involving a sex dungeon. While it seems comical and unlikely, he also figures that if anything were truly wrong with Guevara, Hager would tear the world apart if it meant setting things right and protecting their little bear. The fact that Hager seems calm has Santana able to hold onto the idea that Jake has simply hidden the young man away in a bizarre sex dungeon like some hardcore S&M Rapunzel.

Jericho feels a little better when he rations that Sammy has a life and group of friends beyond their faction. He rests a little easier with the possibility that Sammy is simply out with friends, and maybe his phone died and-

-and Chris's phone buzzes with a new notification. He checks it quick, just in case its Guevara. 

It isn't a message, per se. But... "Hey," Chris says, instantly gaining everyone's attention. "Sammy's just uploaded something." Sure enough, there's a link and a new video on the channel where the young man posts his vlogs. It's a little insulting that he makes time for a filming session but can't bother to check in with them or show up for AEW Dynamite. 

As Jericho clicks the link, turns the volume up, and prepares to hit play, the rest of the Inner Circle crowd around him; Santana and Ortiz on either side of him with Jake coming up behind to look over his shoulder. They stand too close, fitting together snug, like a human puzzle. It's almost like they're posed for an awkward family portrait, and one of these days, they really should grab some ugly sweaters and make a big deal of it. Inner Circle Christmas cards would be awesome. Chris puts the idea on the backburner.

The video quality is terrible and the lighting is poor enough to make the overall atmosphere indiscernible. But the face that comes into frame is unmistakably Sammy. That skin tone, those eyes, and that mouth, the cut of his jaw- all features that are wholly recognizable and undeniable. There's a fairly new gash on his temple and dried blood flakes down the side of his face and jaw. His enthusiasm is significantly less than it usually is as he introduces: "Vlog Number- fuck, I don't know." He carries himself a little stiff and his eyes hold a wariness that is not usually present. 

When Sammy says 'I think I am missing Dynamite'," Chris can't help the rhetorical mutter of: "No shit, kid." The outburst garners him a triage of responses; Ortiz shushing him, Santana waving him off with hand gesture, and Jake outright slapping him hard across the back." Jericho turns his head and gives a fuming glare to Jake for the strong reaction. He'd be throwing words around, at the very least, if not for the continuance of the video.

Someone off-screen is present and rips the camera out of Sammy's hand before spouting some nonsense, calls Sammy a friend and insists that the lack of sold merchandise makes the Spanish God sad. He concludes this bit by instructing: "Show them how sad you are, Sammy. Show them."

Guevara's compliance is both odd and uncomfortable to watch as he makes a generic declaration of sadness and finishes with "Buy a t-shirt. It could maybe save my life." There's an attempted laugh, but it's a low strangled sound that does nothing to ease the creep vibe.

For a moment, Jericho has to wonder if this is a ploy for marketing. It would make sense. And it would certainly work. But he can't imagine Sammy going to such lengths over something so trivial and petty. The thought is rejected as soon as it is recognized for what it is: Insane. 

On vid, the gun comes into view and Guevara's discomfort and behavior suddenly make sense. 

The young wrestler's absenteeism wasn't planned and neither was this video.

Chris's stomach clenches and he feels distinctly ill knowing that his boy was held at gunpoint just hours ago. And no one had any idea. He can almost feel that ulcer forming. He's sure his hair is graying and getting ready to fall out due to stress. He doesn't want to think about hair plugs. Especially at a time like this when a very real crisis is upon them.

When the armed stranger on screen makes a comment about selling photos of Guevara, Jake- who'd been surprisingly quiet up until now- lets out an anguished yell that borders a roar. He steps away, paces a few steps, and flips Santana's nachos.

Santana would mourn the snack if his attention wasn't so focused on the vlog entry.

Hager can't bring himself to rejoin the others. There's limited coherence to his thought process as he grabs his own phone, locates the video, scrolls through the description and clicks on the link where he can allegedly buy the aforementioned photographs. He is met with an error and a series of popup ads. He's fussing over his own phone and getting more and more agitated and angry when- from Chris's phone, the vid still playing- there's the distinct sound: a _bang_ that only occurs when a bullet exits the chamber.

The video cuts there.

For a long moment, nobody moves or says a word. Breathing alone seems sinful and disrespectful given what they've all just experienced.

Chris regains his wits and calls an emergency line to mouth off what he knows and what the video just portrayed. He wants a full scale investigation done. He doesn't realize how loud his voice raises when he tells them to do their fucking jobs, file a missing persons report, and do whatever they need to bring his boy home. "Bring in your SWAT teams with the riot shields-" he isn't even sure how much sense he's making. He just wants results; he wants his boy safe. He's hyped up with anger and anxiety, and all that negativity is only amplified when he receives an apology and is informed that they won't dispatch anyone or file a report until Sammy's been missing for at least 48 hours. The bitch then hangs up on him.

Jericho has never hated protocol so much in his life. This assbag on the phone just made The List, and she doesn't even know it. Chris won't take this lack of action; it's unacceptable. He tries again, this time calling the local authorities and lying, reporting a disturbance that needs looked into immediately. He rattles off the address and is a little satisfied when he is the one that gets to disconnect the call.

It's Ortiz that comes up with the idea: "Why don't we go check shit out? Like detectives. We know Sammy; he's our boy. We'd know if something was out of the ordinary."

Santana had taken time to collect some of his previously scattered nachos and he's deemed them clean enough to continue eating. He's got a handful of them somewhere between his hand and mouth but is on board with Ortiz. "Why are we wasting time? Let's go." He waves them over on his way out the door.

Ortiz follows a step behind.

Chris waits a moment with Jake and offers his sympathy. "I know you and Sammy are close. He's going to need you." He starts heading out but stops short of reaching the door when he realizes Hager is motionless, face unreadable and body tense. "You're coming, right? For Sammy?"

Jake lowers his head, his chin nearly resting on his chest when he responds with a low, controlled voice: "I shouldn't... If I go somewhere now, I just might kill someone." The threat is genuine, and it should be downright alarming.

But Jericho gets it. He waves off the very real, very dangerous promise of pain and shoots out a blasé line of his own. "I'll bail your ass out every time. You know that. Now c'mon already. Get your ass moving." He joins Santana and Ortiz.

Jake follows suit.

They all cram into one vehicle for the ride over to Sammy's abode. During the drive, Chris shoots a text to Orange Cassidy to explain what's going on and what they are doing. Orange responds with a thumbs-up emoji and a gif of a little monkey carrying a cat. It makes Jericho crack a smile.

They arrive on scene to see that an investigation is already underway. Squad cars are present with flashing lights, photographic evidence is being collected, and a uniformed officer immediately approaches the group for questioning. 

Jericho gives a thorough statement while Santana and Ortiz slip right by the officers and their tape. There's blood spattered on the sidewalk and the rental car is busted and spray painted. It's amateur work, but it certainly gets the message across. Further inspection fills them with dread as they check out the door. It's fitted with four locks, which would be efficient enough- except all four locks are tampered with, their bolts cut and filed down to render them decorative rather than functional.

Sammy hasn't been safe the whole time he'd been staying there. Someone could have come in and assaulted the young man at any time, barring the hours he spent elsewhere and the nights he spent with Hager. 

Entering the abode, nothing is really out of place, but they register that Sammy's phone has been left on the bed- which would account for no one being able to reach him. Along with the phone, the bed also holds a small panda plush and a note. It's suspicious at the very least.

Looking at the note and linking the star comment with the painted star on the hood of the rental car, Santana can't help the utterance of: "A clue, a clue." He looks at Ortiz and adds "Blue skidoo, we can too."

Ortiz eyes his partner strangely over the unexpected reference, then goes back to his own sleuthing and deducing. "It's like that old Kathy Bates movie."

"Norman Bates?" Santana only catches the _Bates_ part. This is confirmed when he follows his query up with "Masturbates? I'm telling you, it's still linked to the sex dungeon theory."

Ortiz waves him off. "No. Kathy Bates. That hag in that old movie, where she kidnaps her favorite author. I'm tellin you, our Sammy-boy's got a crazy stalker fan." 

Looking around doesn't afford them any additional evidence, so they make their exit with the intent to rejoin the rest of the Inner Circle, but when they regroup, Hager is nowhere to be seen.

"He's taking this really hard," Jericho explains. And they all understand. It's hard to fathom, and Jake has a strong emotional tie in the matter. They let the blonde have his space.

-

A week passes and the investigation fails to turn up any workable leads.

It's as relieving as it is despairing when another vlog entry is uploaded.

This one is different than the last.

For starters, it's in a building- or what appears to be a cellar of sorts. There's a too-bright lamp with a naked bulb hanging overhead, and the place itself is sparse, empty save for a table and chair... and of course Sammy Guevara. 

Sammy's wearing his hat and sunglasses, and even with the added apparel there's a visibly fresh bruise around his eye and his lip is split and swollen. The bright light above him is unforgiving of those details. He's sitting comfortably enough in the chair, elbows on the table and hands clasped, fingers locked.

"Hey, everyone," he greets. He's not even facing the camera. Not trying to connect with his viewers like he normally would. "So, uh, I guess we're back with another one of these, huh? Not sure who's watching or if these are even being uploaded..." he pauses to lift a hand- _no_ \- he lifts _both_ hands to rub at the bridge of his nose.

He lifts both... because his hands are tied together with what appears to be razor wire. The thin metal is tight and digging into the meat, carving angry red lines as deep as they dare while the surrounding skin is red and inflamed. It looks painful but Guevara doesn't seem too concerned.

In fact, he doesn't seem too concerned about anything.

The act of rubbing his nose causes his sunglasses to slip and he watches, transfixed, as they clatter to the floor. When he finally looks at the camera, the bruising around his eye is dark and nasty, some color between purple and black, swollen with a blood bubble around his orbital bone. His one eyelid is almost swollen shut. His other eye doesn't appear to be afflicted but it is bloodshot and the pupil is blown wide; the logical conclusion being that he's stoned or suffering the effects of some type of drug.

"I guess I'm s'posed to tell everyone I'm okay. I'm s'posed to tell you to buy more shit, but I don't even care about that anymore..." He slouches back in his chair and squints his eyes because the light above is bright and his eyes just don't want any of that. "This could be my last vlog. If it even counts as a vlog. Might just be recorded so some loony can watch it and get his rocks off, y'know? There are people like that..." 

There's the sound of a door squeaking open on rusty hinges and then the patterned steps of someone approaching. It's a man carrying a large poster that resembles one of the cards Sammy would have used during Dynamite's picture-in-picture. This guy's face is obscured as he sets the poster up. It's got what appears to be a bar graph on it. The chart is set up along the back wall behind Sammy. The guy exits, then returns a moment later carrying a bowl and a water bottle. Both are set on the table in front of Sammy.

The bowl contains cold congealed oatmeal and the water bottle's contents appear chalky with little white crystals floating in it.

Sammy completely ignores the guy's comings and goings; he seems to forget the camera as well when his attention settles on the food and water he's been given. His bowl of goop doesn't even come with a spoon. He's careful to keep his hands close- wrists still razor wired together- when he scoops his fingers through the cold unappetizing slop and eats off his own hands. It only takes a few dips into the bowl before he's eaten it all. And then he grabs clumsily at the bottle of tainted water. He looks at it with a number of alternating emotions flickering across his features. Thirst, disgust, and resignation. He gulps down a fair amount of the water before putting the bottle back down, and he coughs and sputters and chokes from drinking too fast. As he's left alone, breathing heavy and trying to calm himself down, he looks absolutely miserable.

His head dips low and it appears as if he's fallen asleep.

The camera is still on. Nothing happens. He doesn't acknowledge that it's still recording.

After what seems like a small eternity, he lifts his head, his eyes catch the little red _record_ light, and he nods to the camera. "Oh... hey. Guess we're doing another one..." He looks even less prepared than he did for his previous attempt. What's more, he doesn't seem aware that this is the same video. He takes notice of the bowl on the table, and the way he looks at it, it's like he's seeing it for the first time. He dips his hands into it and is visibly disappointed when he realizes that the bowl is empty.

He's hungry, feels like he's starving, too used to regular meals and snacks and sessions of carb-loading.

He makes a grab for the water bottle and his depth perception is off just enough that he misses the grab and knocks it over. He watches the bottle fall to the floor and its contents spill. He can't seem to look away from the spill. And maybe it's for the best. Because when his head drops even lower and his shoulders start to shake, it's obvious that he's crying. It's a sad and pitiful site. It's not something anyone should see. It's a private matter, and privacy is something he doesn't currently have.

Something in him snaps and his frustration shines through. It's almost a reflex when he throws a hand at the bowl and knocks it off the table. The action of attempting the use of only one hand isn't too successful and the wire cuts into his opposing wrist enough to make it bleed.

The strange guy who'd been making vid appearances makes a return then, wraps a thick roll of gauze around Sammy's wrists and steps out of the camera's frame. He must pick up the camera because it moves and focuses on the previously placed poster chart. The guy's voice cuts in to explain.

"206 more shirts. 32 PandaSams. And 12 more Limited Edition photographs of Sammy Guevara," he rattles off the items and their availability. "If these get sold before the next video, he can go home. If not... If I still have a box of these fucking shirts, you won't like the next video."

The screen shakes a little before the video cuts off.

-

Hager is obsessive; he is a machine. He seldom eats and sleeps, and he's been waiting for a new video to surface. He's so on point that he is literally the first viewer. He doesn't give it a second thought before he's grabbing a credit card and placing an order. He's buying it all. And when he gets his Samcub back, there is going to be hell to pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this chapter written hours ago! Was ready to post but realized... I didn't SAVE it. Had to write it again, so sorry if it sucks!


	9. Price of a Panda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darby push factor in this chapter is for @SelenaWerdo1234.

The human mind is unique with how it processes, filters and ignores a plethora of garbage information and clutches onto trivial moments and memories. It is this enigmatic structure that has Jake Hager unable to remember courtesy flushes in the bathroom or what brand of toothpaste is better than the other -let alone where he puts his keys half the time- and yet he astutely recalls a single moment with Guevara, wherein Sammy was purchasing dozens of CORE waters and an armload of snacks, and when prompted why, the young wrestler's ready response was as unexpected as it was memorable. "You can lose up to a pound of weight per minute during a match; some of those matches last a while. And I don't know the statistics and shit, but I do know in 1998 three wrestlers literally dropped dead from dehydration. I'm not going to shrivel up and die because some people are too self-conscious to fuel up their bodies. That's not me, and it's not you ether, big guy."

It never makes it into Guevara's dopey little vlogs, but the panda cub has a good head on his shoulders, sharp wits about him, and an almost religious affair with a scale. He's not worried about gaining weight when he eats a box of pizza by himself and goes back for breadsticks and candy. He's worried about keeping the weight on. Because it seemingly melts off pound for pound when he's really working himself over.

Sammy's good like that. He's all effort. Try-try-do and refuse-to-fail. He's _on_ all the time; there is no off switch even when he's tired and busted up from a formidable match or a bad landing.

This favorable light is significant to Hager because it's one of the many aspects that make up Sammy Guevara. And it's impossible not to think back on it because there are so many bottles of water in the fridge not being drank and there is so much food that isn't being eaten. And Hager himself has dropped a little weight since Sammy's abduction. It's not really noticeable, but his clothes fit different and he decides to splurge a little in his cub's name. He goes out for the first time in a while and hits up a sub shop because sandwiches... Because, sandwiches are amazing. Versatile, easy. They need no explanation because they are simply sandwiches and Jake could use a little simplicity in a world that feels like it's gradually imploding with every day that passes without his cub.

He makes a note to try; he gets himself all keyed up and on point, feeling alright and boarding the positive train- _chugga choo-choooo_ \- though he's not happy, per se. To say as much or even imply such a thing is an abhorrent oversight. He's got a level of calm that he is actively enforcing, but he's also got the kind of sickness you can only get from having your partner kidnapped and held hostage with only videos to prove he's alive. The Big Hurt himself has a little hurt to contend with. But he's working on it, quelling it like a disease.

Self-inflicted emotional chemo...

It's a cheesy notion but he entertains the idea that only a Spanish God can really save him from himself. 

He's never felt so ready to drop to his knees and honor the idea of religion.

He settles for less, for now. He's holding tight to all he knows and he's hoping against hope that this fiasco is nearing an end. After all, he spent so much money and purchased so much crap and his orders are being shipped in from various warehouses around the country (and two from China- everything comes from China), and he's just counting down the days waiting for some sign that the Spanish God has been set free from whatever shithole in which he's been imprisoned.

That's the rule, isn't it? With no more merchandise to sell and no more profit to be made, Sammy should be released and brought home.

Jake thinks he's doing good, considering the circumstance. Trying to hold onto the empty promise that everything is going to be sorted out...

He's at the food court paying for his Hager-sized sandwich when his self-enforced placidity starts to warp. 

Because it's _here_ , and it's _there_ , and it's seemingly _everywhere_. Easily over two dozen people are wearing familiarly printed novelty shirts, and those little PandaSams are being abused by children who don't understand their value, and at least a few people are sporting SOS _[Save Our Sammy]_ arm bands, and there's an entire kiosk off to the side selling it all...

Jake feels instantly sick, like he's been wronged, treated like some jabroni who can't and doesn't cut it and he just won't tolerate that. He has an undefeated record with Bellator MMA and he's a 5 star talent. He's a beast with a fiery soul and the heart of champion, and he won't stand for whatever Twilight Zone episode he just walked into.

There's a storm that brews internally, has his skin feeling like it's lifting, flayed from the tissue and meat underneath to leave him raw with anguish. Something mean is fighting to get out and he's just tempted enough to let it go.

There is a fucking child running around with PandaSams taped around his knees like kneepads...

It's too much to handle; Hager is barely human at this point; he doesn't think before he acts. Not right then. He grabs the kid by the shirt and holds him there with a very clear threat looming.

"Holy shit, you're... wow. Fucking Jack Swag-" The kid's a fan. It changes nothing.

Jake tightens his grip on the kid's shirt and lifts until the boy's on his toes. His chest is uncomfortably tight and his voice is strained as he tries to ask: "Why is everyone wearing-"

For some scrawny twerp, the kid's got this fearless streak. That, or he's a complete dumbass. He grabs at Jake's hand and twists, trying to make the fridge-built wrestler let go. He's smart enough to answer though. "Everyone's buying them. It's hotter than fuckin' Gucci right now."

Hager doubts it, but he can't deny the startling amount of Sammy-themed apparel that seemingly blew up out of nowhere.

There's a milf-lookin' woman who's too old for the way she cropped her top, probably cut it with a pair of kitchen shears.

There's an older man with a backbrace and a cane wearing an SOS hat that has a panda pin clipped to it.

Hager breathes in and out slowly to try to calm his fraying nerves. He releases his grip on the kid's shirt and takes a step back. His eyes dart back and forth like he's something wild and caged, and the more he looks the more panda merch he sees. There's a poster and a cardboard cutout and a kiosk and... he pulls out his phone- has to check, has to look, has to see, has to know- and there's a ton of missed notifications: members of the Inner Circle warning him about the newest trend. 

One of his messages has a picture attatched and- _oh, fucking hell_ \- there's a billboard advertising a nationwide SamSearch.

_Have you seen him? Call toll-free or text..._

There is entirely too much wrong with how big this has blown up.

Jake is more than a little peeved. Because... Sammy is _his_. Sammy is wrestling and Inner Circle. Sammy is his own brand with his own fans and haters. Sammy belongs to them all as a collective community to adore and fuss over. And now, as lame as it may seem, Jake feels like his entitlement towards Guevara has been cheapened. Because now everyone, everywhere is given a chance to care.

And that's good. Because, that means there's more people to help find him.

But it's also terrible. Because Jake feels like he has less of a hold on the younger wrestler, and a selfish part of him doesn't want to share.

Santana's sex dungeon theory doesn't seem so stupid in retrospect. In fact, it's something he half wishes he would have come up with. Just lock the cub up and never let him face any of the dangers presented by the world around them. 

Then again... there comes to mind the image of Guevara's face after a match when his nose is bleeding and he's going to be sporting a new scar on the side of his head- and the Spanish God sticks his tongue out and stares into the cameras to give the fans what they want, and then later he's walking around pointing it out to everyone because a new scar and a little blood makes him look tough- or so he likes to think.

Moments like that, Sammy's completely in his element, regardless of danger, and he's happy.

Jake wouldn't dream of taking that from him.

So, no sex dungeon prison type thing. 

Hager's thoughts are all-consuming and he slips into his head a little. He is jarred back into the world of the living when some teenage girl with too much makeup leans in real close, taps him on the arm and asks if she can get a picture with him. He doesn't get to answer because she holds up her phone and takes a selfie before running off squealing with a little too much excitement.

Jake's focus is abruptly brought back to the matter at hand, and he's still not prepared for the bombardment of panda and Sammy merch. He feels too crowded, almost suffocated; he needs to leave before he does something regrettable. His own personal Hulk is greening up under his skin, and there's an itch that has his hands pulling into big fists. He needs to go; he's going to take his leave; he turns to exit like a respectable human being, to get his ass out of there before he ends up knocking the wig off the old lady who bought panda shirts because she thought they were cute and her grandkids could wear matching ones with her while they went out together.

Jake doesn't make it far- nowhere near the glass doors- because it's at that precise moment that a uniformed deliveryman wheels in a cart full of boxes of more merchandise to sell. Jake becomes all animal instinct, doesn't use his head at all when he shoves the deliveryman out of the way and topples the stacks of boxes. He's a big guy, and his actions are big, and he probably looks like a blonde Godzilla knocking around box-shaped buildings but he doesn't care. He grabs a box and checks the address on it, drops it and grabs another, checks and switches for another box. He goes through five or six and is dismayed that they come from different points of origins.

Some dumb part of him had hoped he'd find a single address and that just be where Sammy is. Then he could rescue his cub and all this could be put behind them.

But nothing is ever so easy. 

Security has been called and they are making their way towards Hager.

Caging him in. Like poachers after a score.

Hager's gone and fucked up and he knows it. But he can't bring himself to care. He feels cheated and lied to. Worse, he feels like a stupid sack of human waste because he sat back and just _waited_ for things to be fixed. He's been waiting for Sammy's release and he's been waiting for cops to turn up leads and he's been waiting and waiting-

-and he's done waiting.  
  
He lands a hard kick into a box and it slides an impressive distance across the floor. He lifts his knee high and drops his foot on the top of another box and he hopes the contents are damaged; he stomps it a few times for good measure. He goes to destroy another box when the guy working the kiosk bumbles over cartoonishly and shouts: "No! Please! I'm expecting Coffin Boards!"

Jake shoves his hand through a weakly taped side and rips a box open. Sure enough, this one is full of little decals and stencils, DRUG FREE stickers, and Darby Allin plushes on top of a row of Darby Allin's coffin-shaped skateboards.

Jake levels the seller with a single look. "Are you even allowed to sell this shit?"

The seller nods vigorously, hands raised in a gesture of surrender. He doesn't want any trouble.

Security guards close in and attempt to usher Hager away but he's the Schwarzenegger to their DeVito and he pushes them off like vermin. 

"You can't be doing this here, buddy," a security officer tries- Credit to the poor bastard, he tries to look authoritative. 

But Jake is used to being a member Chris Jericho's posse, so a twerpy young man with a porn 'stache and a uniform are not the least bit intimidating.

Jake ignores security and focuses on the seller. "Where did you get all this? Who's your supplier?" He's still focused on the panda merch; he doesn't give a shit about Darby trying to make bank by selling skateboards and building his own brand.

Hager wants little more than to murder this clown. The desire is strong and ugly and has him gritting his teeth to keep himself in check.

The seller is frantic as he delivers his explanation of: "I don't know, I got a good price. I don't even like Guevara; he's an entitled little douchenozzle-"

Jake gets control of himself and _doesn't_ take a cheap shot at the bozo. Firstly, because of ethics and laws and all the legal bullshit, and second because... yeah, maybe the guy really _is_ out to make a quick buck; most people are. It's not a crime. But third- because there _is_ a third thing that stops Jake in his tracks- he notices piles of shirts that look like pro-Sammy merch but upon closer inspection, instead of being scripted with _BEST EVER_ they shame _BEST NEVER,_ and then another stack, wherein it is expected to boldly declare _Spanish God_ , it reads _Spanish Fraud_ and has an image of a cat eating tacos.

It's the Fraud shirt that steals and holds Hager's attention. There isn't anything spectacular about it, by any means, but it does ring an alarm bell because Hager has a distinct memory of Ricky fuckin' Starks taunting his cub with that barb.

Before things can get any more out of hand than they already are, Hager collects himself enough to pay for the damages and make up for potential sale detraction. He overpays to grease some palms, and hopefully that's enough because he walks out with a near-empty wallet and doesn't even remember to collect the sandwich he already paid for.

The hunger means nothing to him, so he ignores the clench in his gut. 

When he's finally out of there and sitting in his car, he pulls up his phone. It's got a patterned buzz as it vibrates one alert after another. They come in a long steady stream.

Jake tries to scroll through but the messages chime in faster than his finger can swipe. A quick look is all it takes to notice that most of them are saying essentially the same thing.

But it doesn't make sense.

He taps on one and is rewarded with a screenshot and the words: _"Rumor Confirmed: Allin Missing."_ The screenshot is of an article on allegedly missing AEW talent. It's too longwinded for Jake to bother reading right now. So he doesn't. 

His phone finally stops buzzing and he checks in to see if there are any messages he needs to respond to at the moment.

He should check in with Chris and the others. He should probably call a lawyer in case that guy at the kiosk tries to ream him. And he should-

-should definitely take a few minutes to see what the hell is going on because... it's early. Too early in the week, and yet there's another vlog upload. Just seeing it and acknowledging its existence has Hager letting out a primal scream and heaving a mad thump of his fist against the dash. 

He's so tired and frustrated.

He can't take this anymore. 

But... for Sammy. He owes to it Sammy. He has to see. 

-

The vid opens to the familiar setting of the dingy old cellar with the too-bright bulb overhang. The camera isn't stationary, so someone must be holding it. Sammy is in view, front and center, sitting at his table, head down, and he's out cold. His hat and sunglasses are both off to give a clear view of new and old injuries in different stages of healing. His hair is unwashed, slick with sweat and natural oils, and it's all but pasted to his head. The razor wire on his wrists had been mercifully removed and replaced by bandages thrown together with thick gauze and medical tape.

It's strange, personal, to see a video of Sammy just sleeping so soundly, breathing in and out, slow and steady, almost peaceful. But it's also wrong, because this should be a private moment, and there are already tons of views. 

The camera moves closer and its operator speaks; he has the same voice as the guy who's been making video appearances, delivering Sammy's minimal food and laced water, along with background props and merch advertisements. "Here we have my friend, Sammy Guevara- you know him as the Spanish God. Right now, he's being a sleepy little panda... And he's a good little bear."

\--Jake feels an ache inside, cold and deep, hollowed, at the mere sight of his cub and the use of the stolen endearment. He keeps watching because he needs to see where this goes...

There's a suspicious rattling sound before an object comes into view and is revealed to be a prescription bottle with only a few pills left inside. The camera is set down on the table, so close to Sammy's face that his skin and facial details are a sad blur. There's the popping sound of a lid coming off and another rattle as medicine is extracted. The camera is moved back and Sammy's features become clear once more, but also in the frame come's the man's hand; that hand brushes a thumb against the Spanish God's lower lip and slips a little white pill into his mouth. Then the finger slips in and pushes the pill deeper. Deeper, still. Obscenely deep, until the digit sinks in all the way to the knuckle and he pill is surely wedged in the back of the young wrestler's throat.

Sammy stirs, scrunches his face up and swallows. He doesn't wake up. The finger pulls out of his mouth entirely too slow; it's a perverse display that leaves a sense of longing in Jake Hager, but that feeling is quickly overshadowed by a fuming anger for the situation.

"I suppose it's time for an update, for all you viewers and supporters. It's been fun, hasn't it?" Guy pauses, as if to give the viewers a chance to think it over. And then he's continuing. "Our guest-" he reaches a hand out and grabs Sammy by the hair, shakes his head like a ragdoll before letting go- "has overstayed his welcome, but I am a man of my word, and I am here to announce that he can go home at the end of the week."

\--Hager's heart thumps hard with hope and distrust and entirely too much stress.

The vid continues. "But let's make it fun, shall we? One more hurrah before we send the little champ off!"

There's always a catch. Why would now be any different?

"At the end of the week, your Spanish God will be taken to a predetermined location where he can be picked up and taken home... But I'm not going to just tell anyone and everyone where that is. Better yet, starting now and closing exactly 24 hours before the dropoff, let's have an open auction. Highest bidder will be given the location... and then they can take home their very own, one-of-a-kind luxury item. Look at this thing! You know you want it, and you can't get it anywhere else."

The camera closes in, and it's painfully clear how pale Sammy is without his spray tan; the dark circles under his eyes, the cuts and bruises, and the sunken cheeks- he looks sick, even without acknowledging the blood that never got washed off the side of his head. 

The camera is moved to catch different angles and show off the prize for whomever wins the auction.

"This is a priceless gem, right here. Be fair, bid high, and good luck." The camera's view dips down and catches on an ugly bloodstain marring the tabletop; the frame slides over the side of the table and the focus is newly introduced to the floor- or, more specifically, the puddle under the chair that could only be urine.

The fact that Sammy Guevara is in such a drugged stupor that he isn't even aware that he's pissed himself, that's alarming, awful and unfair.

"Sorry, folks. This one might not be house trained. Maybe the next one will be better."

If that was meant to be a joke, it didn't land.

There's the notable sound of a locks tumbling and deadbolts sliding, and then the camera's view is jumping up and catching a side door opening on squeaky hinges; it opens to reveal a masculine figure backlit by the bright and sunny world beyond. The light behind him has his frontal features appearing like a silhouette; he's indistinguishable. His voice his harsh as he barks out: "Shut that damn camera off! I got another one ready to bring in. Come help me."

Guy sets the camera down, once again, too close to Sammy. Viewers can't see what's going on but they can certainly hear as the question comes: "What happened to your neck?"

The newcomer growls out something that resembles: "He bit me."

The video cuts.

-

The stress is too much; Jake's stomach gives out on him and while he initially swallows the rising bile, it makes a valiant return. He tries to cover his mouth with his hand but stomach acid seeps through his fingers and it's warm and gross and a little slimy as it gushes around his palm and down his wrist. He fishes napkins out of the glove compartment and cleans up more fast than effective, and then he is left to stew over what's just been unveiled. 

Sammy can come home.

But no.

Sammy can go home with someone who can afford to win some bizarre auction.

Jake has to be that person. But he blew so much money on the merch, and he dropped a fair amount of cash in on a detective that found even less than Santana and Ortiz had, and then the kiosk debacle... He's pretty close to being tapped out; he can't drop down any serious cash right now.

He'll have to call in Chris and the Inner Circle for a financial assist, at the very least. They'll do it because Sammy's their boy. 

So close, and yet so far. Time is counting down. Just days away from him potentially seeing his cub. The first thing he wants to do is feed the young man real food. Or get him to a hospital. Or both.

But that is still days away. As anticipation wars with anxiety, Hager knows he should focus on other things, like the fact that Sammy could suffer any number of ailments upon return- physical, emotional, mental. 

His cub might be an entirely different person when he comes back.

And then there's the matter of sorting through whatever drug he's clearly been exposed to. 

And of course, the way the video ended, with the implication that there very well could be an additional captive... That's bad. That's unsettling. And that... is not Jake Hager's problem.

Someone else can deal with that.

All he cares about is paying for his panda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot point closing and new/brighter ones are coming. Stay tuned. Don't get discouraged!  
> Will try to proofread later. Brain is fried. Sorry!
> 
> Also, there is a chance Darby Allin gets a spin-off oneshot.


	10. Cub's Naptime ARTWORK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor cub.


	11. Fundraiser

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Light chapter ahead! Hope you like it! Lots of little things to break up tension.

Sammy Guevara's homecoming would be soon, but only if the cards were stacked in their favor, the money came together, and the panda's abductor kept his word. It was a steep hill to climb and a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that they could turn up empty-handed. The Inner Circle had all seen the latest vlog, noted the declining health of their youngest member, and promptly gathered at Jericho's to pull their resources and place a bid that they all felt was on the high end of what most people would be able to afford. In theory, because it's how things are supposed to work, they'd win the auction and then welcome their boy with open arms and a hospital visit.

That's how things were _supposed_ to go down. No doubts or room for even the most marginal error.

So, it's a slap to the face when- after a hefty 6-figure bid placed by the Inner Circle- more bids come in at a doppler's pace: fans driving the bids up... and up and up.

Higher and higher...

And apparently fans _can_ turn heel and be complete jackasses because haters are in on the bidding action too, posting just as many threats and promises as pro-Sammers were posting well wishes and prayers.

All over the web, there's big bold posts about the Fall of the Spanish God, the plummet of AEW's fastest rising star, along with some lewd comments that came outta left field and revived Santana's sex dungeon idea with a darker, less consensual spin.

Hager raged when he saw their bid overshot like it was nothing; he reached for something to throw because he had to do _something_ -

Santana had a plate of nachos he absolutely refused to give up. He'd even spit in them so he wouldn't have to share. He grabbed his plate and backed away, needing to protect his food from Jake's anguish-induced wrath.

Ortiz assisted Jake's plight by handing him the first non-breakable object he could get his hands on: a tangerine from a decorative fruit bowl.

Jake pitched the fruit like a professional leaguer and it thankfully smacked into the wall without hitting or breaking anything.

Chris was beside himself on the matter. He didn't even have it in him to tell Jake to simmer-the-fuck-down. He had a lot of money- how could he not(?)- so he assumed their bid would be a one-and-done. Seeing those bids just keep going... a cold feeling settled over Le Champion. He's a big guy with a lot of fame and a lot of everything. But one thing he'd truly lacked prior to forming the Inner Circle is a likable, reliable family that he actually gave a damn about. And now it felt like he'd lost someone dear to him. Perhaps worse, he felt like a mother on one of those Lifetime movies that he'd never admit to watching. (He'd put it on tv as a joke, trying to prompt Orange to get the remote and change it. It was supposed to be a friendly [or not entirely platonic] at-home wrestling match to decide who controlled the tv for the night... but Orange had been too tired to take the bait, and then they both just watched... and no one has changed the channel since... so, every time the tv is on, it's a shitty Lifetime movie, and maybe they aren't all terrible.)

So, Papa Bear Jericho is nursing his inner Mama Bear instincts; he really wants - _needs_ \- to have Guevara home with the Inner Circle where he belongs. And if Chris is feeling this strongly, he can't imagine how Hager's holding up. -Except, yeah-no, he can _see_ Hager isn't holding up at all. Jake is one storm away from collapsing like a straw house blown by a wolf, and no one will be there to rescue the piggies. There is honest and collective concern that Jake is going to just fall apart and never pull back together again.

A real life Humpty Dumpty.

...which is how the snap decision was made, favors were called, and a non-restricted, televised fundraiser came underway and things got out of hand entirely too fast.

-

Chuck Taylor should never have been allowed to answer the phone for called-in donations. "Yeah, so... uh, you'll donate _how much_ if I get naked...? I'll do it, I swear."

Trent is seated nearby with his own line to answer. It's just unfortunate that his mom called and decided to ask him if he remembered to wear clean underwear.

Orange Cassidy had volunteered his services for entertainment, for the fans that showed to throw in their support and hard-earned cash, he's walking around with his hands in his pockets claiming that he's 'stripping'. It's not much of a tease. His jacket came off with an assist from an official that just happened to be on scene and willing to help. Every move Orange makes is slow enough to border annoying rather than amusing. He makes up for it when his shirt comes off and he turns around to reveal that his lower back, just above the swell of his ass, is branded with big black letters painted on to read: _POUND IT_. The fans go crazy then, making ass-tapping and freshly-squeezed comments before throwing their money at him like he's some pole dancer. He kicks the money into a pile and waits for someone else to collect it. He never does actually strip.

There's a lot of AEW talent there to offer their support and/or services during the fundraiser.

And it's not just for Sammy.

_It's mostly for Sammy-_

A number of Darby Allin supporters have shown up as well, making the connective assumption that both Guevara and Allin have met similar fates.

There's a table set up where Jimmy Havoc is charging fans for facials- or, erm- he's painting their faces. Many fans are paying for the experience of having the interaction with Havoc while others are asking for their kid's face to be painted like a panda carnival-style, and of course, there are the ones who ask for Havoc's crude rendition of Allin's half-skull. The line for face paint is long and getting longer, and Jimmy is faced with the dilemma that he's in a little over his head. He figured he'd do maybe ten faces. There's no way he has enough face paint... or patience... or... fuck that. He gets up and leaves his booth in favor of getting food, and maybe taking part in an unscripted match. Anything other than sitting there and painting faces.

They have a monitor specifically to keep track of the money they've pulled, and every time it's driven up a milestone new talent is showcased with varying levels of creativity-

Matt Hardy makes an appearance, puts aside their feud, and makes a speech that ends with him withdrawing the deletion of Guevara.

Marko Stunt boasts that he has something amazing to show everyone, and when the cameras are on him... he walks away. Cameras follow him backstage where he has a pre-poured bowl of cereal. He takes a seat, stares at the camera, and begins to eat. It's ridiculous, but the camera is on him the entire time he eats, and he drinks the milk afterwards. "What?" he asks, peering directly into the camera when he's finished eating. "That amazing thing I wanted to show you? It's just me." He flashes a smile at the camera and waves. He's an adorable little shit, and he knows it.

The camera pulls away and the focus changes to another event.

The Inner Circle is front in center.

"Everyone here tonight, I know some of you are here for Darby Allin, praying he makes it back and keeps at least one foot on the side of the living-" Jericho's got his speech mostly planned but he's winging it a little too. He always does.

Fans are cheering, some hoping Darby makes an appearance and this whole thing is revealed as a hoax.

Jericho continues: "Darby is a tough little fucker, so don't you worry. And for those of you with your SOS -Save Our Sammy- apparel, all you panda-pals and pro-Sammers or whatever you choose to call yourselves... I say this, and I mean it from the heart of my bottom: thank you." There's a pause while he paces the ring, looks down, mouth practically on the mic. Just when it looks like he might be preparing to say more, he stops and holds the mic out towards Jake Hager. He leans in and whispers something no one catches as Jake accepts the mic.

There's a moment where Jake clears his throat and adjusts his hold on the mic. And then, nothing. He hands it back to Le Champion, shakes his head and walks away. He climbs through the ropes and leaves the ring. He needs a break. He can't introduce the next bit.

Ortiz steps up to take over then, announcing that they are going to host a game of Dare or Double Dare. Because they don't play or Truth or Dare like pussies. For a limited amount of time, when people donate, they can put in a request, ask a dare, or propose a match between wrestlers of their choice.

The first dare comes in, some teen donates $50 and asks if Chuck and Trent can do a dramatic tag team reading of a fanfiction she linked them. It's short, so they oblige. Which is how Best Friends find themselves the center of attention. Trent's in the middle of the ring walking around with a mic in one hand and a phone in the other. Chuck is ringside, leaning over the ropes and waiting for his tag in. Trent's reading off the phone, his brows furrowed and face contorted and looking a little constipated as he starts to read aloud. He gets less than a paragraph in before he stops reading out loud and skims ahead, mouth agape with shock. "Wait... What...?" He walks over and slaps Chuck on the arm. "We're reading porn now. Have fun." He hands off the phone and mic and slips out the ropes while Chuck climbs in.

Chuck walks to the other corner of the ring, climbs the ropes and sits up top; it's not great on his knees, but it's comfortable enough and he wants to sit down if he's checking out awkward teen-written porn. He starts reading out loud and has to stop and turn his had away from the mic to laugh. "Okay, so according to this, I'm dicking Trent... and I got this massive dong... and I'm going to raw-dog that rabbit hole."

Trent shakes his head. It's awful, and maybe a little funny. But it's also a little horrifying. Why does he gotta take dick? Chuck's the adorable one; he'd probably bend right over and wait for it.

Chuck tags in Trent when he wants Trent to say something naughty and hilarious. Chuck throws a victorious fist into the air when, in the story, Orange makes a ridiculous cameo.

Chuck takes it upon himself to make a correction that fans had assumed and written. "He doesn't smell like oranges! That would attract bees!" The reading goes relatively well, until the end... when Chuck slips: "Pretty good. I'd read it again and maybe get a nice spank out of it. But it really bugs me that people write Orange so passively. I mean, he's the more active one between him and Chrissss- _shit_."

Chris and Cassidy's relationship was never made public.

Thankfully, no one takes Chuck seriously enough to followup on his slip.

Meanwhile Jake Hager's outside getting fresh air. He guesses everything is going well enough but he could really use something to take the edge off. It's been a while since he's really wanted to tear into something this bad. He's got his teeth clenched and he's working through a controlled breathing exercise when Jon Moxley shows up. It's unexpected and seemingly unnecessary. Hager shoots him a look that says he's not in the mood to deal with any bullshit.

But Moxley isn't much for bullshit either, so maybe there's mutual ground there.

Hager almost asks why Mox is bothering him. He doesn't. Doesn't really care anyway.

By way of explanation. Moxley rolls his shoulder and brings attention to the DRUG FREE sticker on his arm. He's there for Allin. And it makes sense.

Hager gets it. He looks- _really looks_ \- Mox over and sees the thinly veiled tension, the tiredness under his eyes and the overall sense of wrongness and haunting loss.

The thing with Mox is, he has a good build, good size, and he fights well.

Probably itching to blow off steam.

They both are.

So what happens next is almost natural.

Without so much as a verbal proposition, both Hager and Moxley- Jake and Jon, Jon and Jake; there's a Jingleheimer Schmidt in there somewhere- have an understanding and an agreement, and Jon's throwing a low gut-punch while Jake narrowly avoids the swing and goes in for a punishing hold.

This isn't even for the fans.

It's all hard emotion and physical strain.

Both are busted up and bleeding, scraped raw with road rash from failed pins on the concrete by the time Hager forces Mox to tap out wtih an armbar.

They're sweating and breathing hard and they admittedly feel a little better, even if nothing has been solved.

"Hager..." Moxley calls when Jake is finally ready to go and regroup with the others.

"...yeah?" the blonde queries, and it's uncomfortable at best. They don't usually talk with each other.

"I hope your boy makes it back alright."

Jake sighs heavily and takes those words for what they are. "Yeah, yours too."

-

The fundraiser concludes and every last dime is put towards the auction. The final bid is overkill, but it's also assurance.

They are rewarded with an anonymous message giving a time and location and strict orders to follow regarding pickup.

Jake doesn't sleep. He packs a bag of medical supplies, clothes, food, CORE water.

He's hours away from seeing his Samcub.


	12. Smother

Nerves twist wildly, seemingly tangled up in each other and clinging to pulsing veins; it's an uncomfortable feeling, like all the blood-carrying valves in his body decided to open up and there's so much pressure that it borders pain. There's the vague notion, in the back of Jake Hager's mind, that maybe this is how heart attacks start? Perhaps everything builds and builds until it bursts? He pushes the idea down; he doesn't have time to dwell on that. But the thrum of his blood through his own veins has him rubbing and massaging at his wrists and forearms, hoping to alleviate the sensation at least a little. He squeezes and rubs and twists his hand over his arm until his skin is reddening from the attention. It doesn't really help, but the skin ends up just sore enough to distract him from the deeper ache.

He's in the back of an Uber. As per instruction, he'd been told to come alone; it's as alone as he can be. Even so, there are cops dressed in their civvies trying to discreetly make their way to the dropoff point where Jake will be collecting his cub and hopefully the authorities will be able to apprehend the culprit responsible for the kidnapping.

The Uber is parked and the location is entirely unassuming. It's open and casual, and it's a child's playground, with swings and seesaws and monkeybars and a merry-go-round... The fact that such a creep would choose a wholesome location is unsettling.

But he sets those feelings aside and focuses on why he's there.

The word _extraction_ comes to mind.

Jake tells his driver to wait for him. He gets out and looks around. So far, no dice. Just families playing frisbee and children racing around obstacles or climbing the jungle gym. He paces for a few, stretches and pops his joints, cracks his neck. He's puttering around and wasting time, not sure what else to do. He eventually seats himself on a bench and checks the time on his phone entirely too many times for the amount of minutes that actually pass.

Time passes slower than a snail's tail.

Hager tries to hum a little to help squash down some of the anxiety; he stops humming when he realizes the allegedly random tune is to that Shia Labeouf song Sammy had been so fond of.

Thankfully, he doesn't have long to wait before someone is approaching him.

It's not Sammy.

It's not the awful prick that deemed himself Sammy's caretaker while he was captive.

It's a child, maybe five or six years old, a little snot bubble in his nose and little bandaids on his knees. The kid comes over, reaches a tentative hand out and taps Jake on the knee to get his attention. "I has this for you," he says. He's got one of those soft kid voices. Kinda cute but also grating. On second thought, more annoying than cute.

 _If only baby-punching was a sport:_ it's the kind of humor that becomes decidedly less funny as soon as it comes to light. Because Hager isn't that big of a dick. So, no, he doesn't knuckle-bump the child in the face. It would be different if he were in the ring with Marko Stunt. If he squints a little... Marko and the kid look a little similar. But maybe it's just the height.

"Mister, I has this for you." the kid tries again.

Jake disregards his increasingly less comical thoughts and decides to humor the kid. "What do you have there?" He takes a look around, in case some mom or nanny runs over and assumes he's creeping on the kid. But no one comes or even appears to be paying attention. He kinda wants to bitch about people not watching their kids. He wants to make a big deal of it because, if his Samcub can be taken, any asshole can pick up an unwatched child.

It's a horrible fact.

The kid holds up a finger to tell Hager to wait a sec; the finger has something brown on it and Jake's mind immediately jumps to: _I hope that's chocolate_. Then the kid is off running, goes over to the tunnel slide- and Jake watches because kids tend to like when their antics are watched and he's not a complete asshole- and, then the kid is climbing into the tunnel of the slide, and he comes out the other end... holding an entirely too familiar hat in one hand and pair of sunglasses in the other.

"Hey, mister, these... for you," the kid yells over to Jake.

Jake is off the bench and with the kid in seconds flat. "Where did you get these and who told you to-" his voice is raised as he starts asking. When the kid shies away and looks intimidated, Jake reels himself in and tries for a more calm tactic. "I mean... thank you. Very nice." He is deliberately slow and careful when he takes the hat and sunglasses into his own hands. There's old crusted blood on the hat and Hager's heart seemingly leaps into his throat and he swallows around a thick lump.

"I got five dollars," the kid says, appearing a little more bold now that Jake is trying to be less scary. "I got five dollars and was told to gived you these." He pauses and looks around before standing on his tippy toes and whispering loudly to Jake: "S'posed to tell you to go there." He points to the what appears to be a rundown brick building with a sign that reads Public Restroom.

Jake pats the kid on the should, grips the hat and sunglasses too tight- the sunglasses creak under his strength, and Jake _runs_. He runs so fast that he hits his mark before he even needs to take a breath- which is well and good because his heart and lungs would be at war if they both decided to work at the same time right now.

The door hinges are busted so that the doors themselves are leaning against a frame, not really usable. Hager moves the door enough to squeeze through and his feet sound too loud, almost echoing when his shoes tap against the flooring. He enters the men's bathroom and is rewarded with one of the most amazing sights he's ever seen.

Leaning against the sink, one hand pressed to the porcelain basin for support, the other hand under the tap to collect a palmful of water, Sammy Guevara splashes his face and grabs a paper towel to wipe some of he old blood, sweat, and grime from his face. The white paper towel comes away from his skin with a rusty brown color and he repeats the action. He doesn't look in the mirror apart from trying to see how filthy he is.

"Sammy?" Jake tries the name but it comes out sounding strained and tight with emotion. It doesn't feel real, and he's afraid he just might wake up and be back at square one. "Hey, Samcub..."

Guevara doesn't react to the name or endearment, decidedly focused on ridding himself of dirt.

Jake gives him a solid minute before he closes in, steps up behind him and- doesn't touch him. He won't. Not yet. For two reasons. One, there's that fear that maybe he's lost his mind and none of this is real. Two, Sammy might not be ready for physical contact after everything he's been through.

"Are you okay, Sammy? I'm here to take you home." Jake's blunt with what he says, but he doesn't know how else to be. He can't process anything deeper when he's so focused on the shallow end of here-now-Sammy-safe.

Guevara doesn't say anything, just throws the dirty paper towel away and grabs a clean one. He wets it like the first one- the soap dispenser is empty, so water will have to be enough- and then he's running the biodegradable cloth up and down his arm. He's dirty, and he doesn't want to be dirty anymore.

"Say something..." Jake pleads, almost begs, needs to hear, needs that affirmation. If Sammy would just say something, somehow, this becomes more real and less of a potential fantasy or delusion.

He gets nothing. Just more of Sammy trying to wash himself off.

Jake hesitates before making a decision. He closes the gap between himself and his cub, sets the sunglasses and hat on top of a dispenser. He grabs several clean paper towels, wets them under the tap and wads them up in his hand; then he carefully dabs at a bruise under his cub's eye. He trails the cloth wad down around Sammy's jaw with a delicate stroke, and then dips to the neckline of that filthy shirt.

Finally, for the first time, there's a spark of acknowledgement, recognition. Sammy's hand comes up to rest on Jake's cloth-wielding one. The hold is light, the hand is a little boney, thinner than Jake remembers. Sammy's eyes dart back and forth to look around; whether he's looking for the boogeyman or making sure he and Jake are alone, it's hard to tell. And then, he finds his voice. It's soft and strained and a little dry, unused, but it's definitely Sammy's voice as he says: "Jake. Hey... What are you doing here?"

Hager's heart drops into his stomach. He thought it would be obvious why he was there. But he'll take what he can get, being right there in front of his cub; it's enough for now. "I'm here to take you home..." Jake has been waiting so long to say those words. He wants to say them again and again. But he doesn't. One time is enough.

Sammy's head bobs; it's a nod. A big ol' ' _yes_ ' without the actual word. It's short, simple, and to the point, but it's as good a response as any.

Hager throws out his sullied cloths and Sammy does the same. Then Jake collects Sammy's hat and sunglasses, slips an arm around the younger man, and steps back with the intent to lead his cub out and to the Uber.

Sammy's reaction is the instinctive knee-jerking sort as he pulls away from Hager's arm, snatches the hat and sunglasses and pitches them into a waste bin. He doesn't want them.

Jake doesn't make any sudden moves. He freezes and waits for Sammy to make the call on how things go down. It's the least he can do. He wants to say so many things, and he wants to hold his cub and ask so many questions. But he knows, no, now is not the time.

Sammy looks around and seems a little withdrawn. When he takes a step towards the door, the movement is painfully unsteady.

Jake's insides freeze over completely. And suddenly, something becomes clear. Why Sammy had been firmly seated at a table for all those horrific vlogs. Sammy's left pantleg is ripped off and there is a badly treated injury: a deep dip where there used to be a wall of muscle in his calf, the skin around the dipped area is pinched and gnarled and puckered with its attempt at healing. It's discolored, swollen pink and pus-filled yellow; some of the tissue is almost black and there's a slight infectious odor. "Holy fuck, your leg." The words come without any thought behind them. Genuine surprise and alarm.

The younger man huffs a little laugh and the then throws a too-bright grin at Hager. "It looks cool, doesn't it? Kinda... badass."

It looks neither cool nor badass. It barely looks like a leg.

Sammy shifts his weight more firmly onto his good leg and asks: "You wanna touch it?"

Jake does not want to touch it. He wants to smother it in antibiotics. He settles for biting his tongue on the matter and reaching to grab his cub's hand. "Let's get you home, cleaned up, and fed..."

Sammy doesn't reply to that. He doesn't pull away either. His own grip on Hager's hand tightens a little and he accepts the escort out of the old Public Restroom.

There are questions to be asked and hugs to be given and so much more to come...

Jake is willing to ease into things, take it slow, let things happen a their own pace.

Sammy, on the other hand, has his mind elsewhere.

Both men seated in the back of the Uber, Jake pushing his pre-packed bag into Sammy's lap... and Sammy has the nerve to turn a set of determined eyes on Jake as he asks: "Hey, do I still have a spot on Dynamite? Like... can I get booked soon? I miss it."

Jake doesn't answer, doesn't know how. Sammy's not in any condition to be thrown around in a ring. He doesn't say that though. Instead, he nudges Sammy and says: "Let's catch up on a few things first."

Hager must have said or done something right, because Sammy's next response is to throw his head back and declare: "Oh, fuck, yes, we need to get food. Real food. Reese's Cups and- I am going to eat until I puke. Let's do this. Let's go."

The sudden enthusiasm is a reminder and a relief. There's that excitable cub Jake's come to know and love.

Maybe things will be okay after all.

Sammy all but throws himself into Jake's side and starts rummaging through the bag of goodies. They fit snugly against each other; Sammy's elbow digs into Hager's ribs a little and Jake's sweat doesn't smell great, but it's a good feeling. It's warm and it's comfortable, and it is so close to perfect. Everything is so fucking good in that moment, and it can only get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Heads up! Got another part of Bubbly Orange Verse coming out. Check it out!  
> It's called Champagne Corks and Orange Peels, and that's where I will be taking prompts for one-shot chapters regarding Chris and Orange and Sammy and Jake.
> 
> As Sammy would say: HIT ME UP!  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/26546317/chapters/64710892


	13. One Circus, Hold the Laughs

Sammy really did eat til he puked, which wasn't as big a deal as the fact that he'd hardly eaten at all. Just a few bites of something savory that he actually had to chew... His first real food since his abduction. It felt weird on his tongue and against the roof of his mouth. His teeth grinding, that felt uncomfortable too. The worst part was swallowing. It tasted fine but the moment the food tried to slide down his throat, he gagged, hunched over, and heaved. He felt bad and probably looked even worse. He had no delusions about it. He knew he'd lost weight and he looked a little banged up. It's not a big deal, really. This shit happens to people all the time. Weight can easily fluctuate 7 pounds between morning and evening for an average person.

And Sammy has never been average. He's the Best Ever and he's the Spanish God.

He's not ready to slow things down. He's got dreams and goals, and he has a future to dive into.

No matter how hard it is. No matter how much it hurts.

And it _does_ hurt.

Sammy knows. He knows better than anyone just how bad his body's condition is in. They don't need to remind him or keep asking if he's okay. He _isn't_. But he wants to be. And he knows how to fake it til he makes it.

Being back with the Inner Circle is almost dreamlike. He's gotten all the hugs and pats on the back that he can stand, and while he knows, without a doubt, that they all want to grill him for information about his time away from them, no one pushes the subject on him. And he's glad. He's glad they find it in them to laugh and make jokes and he can join in on the fun.

He's had a bottle of Schnapps -courtesy of Orange- and it is doing delightful things as it mixes with the medication the doctors were kind enough to give him. Granted, he knows better; he knows he should be more responsible. He just... doesn't want to. Not right now. He wants a night of fun, to jump over this awful shit that the media is going to drag out. Hell, he got his phone and went to check his messages... and there was so much bullshit asking where he was and sending prayers his way.

He wishes everyone would put the incident behind them... so he could do the same.

So, he tries. And in the meantime, his faction buddies are amazing for welcoming him and letting him have a good time.

It's a unique experience to see Ortiz try to sneak Santana's nachos, and Santana's reaction is the threat of shoving a spoonful of salsa up his ass.

It's an abso-fucking-lute delight to be able to spend time with his Papa Bear once again. The man's hug was so fierce that it just made everything feel good again. Like baptism. But better.

Sammy doesn't question why the tv is on the Lifetime channel. Just like he doesn't ask or make a big deal when Orange Cassidy comes in and sits on Chris's lap like he belongs there.

And Sammy sits with Jake and talks movies-

_Orange has to interrupt with: "Fast Five is my favorite."_

-and when movie-talk doesn't lead anywhere, he braves the subject of: "So... AEW. What'd I miss?" Because he knows he's missed a lot. He's had to.

The room gets so quiet that it would be fitting for crickets to chirp.

Crickets don't make an appearance though.

Fuck Jiminy and his little legs, probably off shagging that little Lucky Cricket from Mulan.

The ice is broken when Orange talks first. "I stripped during a fundraiser."

Sammy doesn't buy it. It's so weird and random.

Ortiz jumps in to push the subject and get the conversation ball rolling. "Yeah, about that. Who wrote _POUND IT_ on your ass?"

Orange defends with a deadpanned expression and a flat voice: "It was on my back..."

Santana's just about out of nachos, so he chips in. "Oh, man, I call bullshit. I saw some crack. That was your _ass_."

There's a beat of silence before Orange looks off to the side, almost brooding, and grumbles: "My ass and my back are one entity. Chuck suggested I wrestle under the name: Urban 'Longback' SuperAss ... the Third."

Jericho chokes on a mouthful of Bubbly and sets his glass down on a coaster. A coaster, yes, because he doesn't want little condensation rings on his shit. He says something or another and shoves Orange from his lap to the floor.

Orange doesn't seem to care; he doesn't get up. He just stretches out, pulls a knee up and crosses his other ankle over it. He's content there, fitting in strangely well with people who should have been his enemies.

Sammy lets his mind drift a little while the others hop in to make jokes about Orange's ass and Chuck Taylor's terrible list of unused wrestling names. Their voices blend together and then start to fade, and suddenly Sammy isn't sitting on a chair in the living room of Chris's condo; he's got his back against a hard chair and his leg feels intensely mangled and he's so hungry he would eat one of his own limbs if he could. He hears voices and one- maybe two- sound familiar. But he can't place it. He squints his eyes shut tight, hoping that if he can't see, his ears will strain to work a little better. Like Daredevil. He strains his hearing and rocks forward a little, reaches a hand down to lightly touch his leg injury... digs his fingers into the sensitive center; the shock of pain causes him to take a deep breath and... And it's like coming out of cold water, panting, sucking in air like he'd die without it.

His eyes redraw focus and he find himself back in the condo, and he'd apparently been pulled into a tight embrace by Hager because those arms are around him and it feels comforting but it's also suffocating and everyone is staring at him.

Fucking _staring_. Like he's some kind of circus act.

"Hey guys, did I miss something?" Sammy has to ask. Because he doesn't know what else to do. Everyone is not only quiet, but also looking at him like he'd grown a second head.

It's Jake who answers. "You... left us for a few minutes."

Guevara pulls a face and shakes his had. "What? No. I've been here the whole time."

"You didn't know where you were," Jake insisted. His voice is soft when he speaks and Sammy wants to punch him for it. That voice, it's supposed to be a private thing between them. It makes him feel too small, too vulnerable and exploited.

"I'm here, okay?" Sammy _tries_. He really does. But it's too much pressure having them all look at him like there's something wrong with him. "Fuck you all." He says the words, tries to keep them light, but they come out bitter and cold. No one calls him out for it, and he's glad. He pulls away from Hager and goes over to sit next to Chris. And he walks _damn fine_ , thank you very much, even with his bad leg. Sitting with Chris, he looks at the older wrestler and flashes a signature smile. And it's almost believable. "Now, onto important shit," he tries to keep it casual. Things only seem to work when they're casual. "I'm going to hit some weights tomorrow. When I get myself where I need to be, think I can get booked for an event? Even if I don't wrestle right away, maybe make an appearance. Fuck, I'll take a Dark match. Oh, with Serpentico- could be fun since I stole his bit for my last return. Or Marko- drum him up and I can either take the loss or make a cool comeback. I really wanna get back in on this." He pauses, gives his most pleading look and throws in a pout for good measure. He really wants this. More than anything. "Please?"

Jericho is quiet for a long moment, several breaths go in and out while he mulls it over and gives the matter serious thought. On one hand, Sammy's wrecked, and he looks it; he shouldn't be pulling any stunts. On the other hand, this could be huge publicity, and it would certainly boost the young star's esteem to be back in the ring. Chris finally answers with: "Let's talk promos and a big entrance. I'm talking _huge_."

From his spot on the floor, Orange offers a half-cocked thumbs-up and... "That's what she said," he turns his head and completely fails to hide the snort of laughter that follows.

The rest of the night goes off without a hitch.

-

The following day, Sammy's up early. More honestly, he hadn't slept. He's not tired. And even if he was, he'd spent so much time drugged up and unconscious that he just doesn't want to slip back under.

His bottles of CORE water are amazing, but he can't help checking and double-checking that the seals on them haven't been broken. He peers through the clear plastic and is entirely too happy that there is nothing chalky or floating in it.

Water long gone, he skips out on food because swallowing solids... it's still hard. He settles for loading up on vitamins and supplements- _It's the same thing, right?_ And he tops it all off with a BANG energy drink. He's really feeling the Rainbow Unicorn when he picks up the first set of dumbbells, tests their weight, fixes his stance, and curls his arms. It's a good feeling. The best he's felt in a long time. He counts his reps and keeps track of his sets, then moves onto a new exercise. He needs to work his legs. They're thin, and he fucking hates that they've tried to shrivel up on him. He wraps his bad leg really thick and attempts some leg exercises. He tests himself with a bit of stretching and some light squats- and he's done.

Fucking done.

His bad leg pulls enough that he drops to the floor almost cartoonishly. He brings a fist to his mouth and bites down hard to stop from screaming out his frustration.

He needs to go at a slower pace.

But he's never had to do anything slow before.

He sucks up his pride and grabs his phone, shoots a text to Kip, because Kip is a good friend and he needs that.

But Kip - _fuck you too, Kip, I'm not even the best man for your wedding-_ is busy with his leading lady.

He thinks about Marko. Marko is always up for fun.

In his contacts, his eye catches on Ricky Starks... Ricky is an interesting friend. Not always on the best terms, but Ricky challenges him. And maybe that's what he wants. Someone to be enough of an ass to tell him like it is instead of treating him like he needs protected.

His thumb goes back and forth between Marko and Ricky.

Stunt or Starks.

One or the other.

He's leaning towards Marko.

He picks Ricky.


	14. Holy Diver

There's a weightless feeling to it, being airborne, flying, almost godlike on par with a super saiyan, as the body lifts and shifts and entrails jostle with gravity's lurch; equilibrium is rendered moot; this is followed up with the hard jarring sensation of impact as his back connects with the mat.

It hurts, but not enough to stop. Having just been dropped by Starks, Sammy gets to his feet slower and less graceful than usual, but he's still moving, still going. He's still on the up, and he's still pushing himself to try. He's breathing harder than he has in a while. Definitely needs to fit more cardio into his routine- and he fuckin' hates cardio. But his desire for self-improvement outweighs that hate in scores.

He gets a foot on the ropes, uses a hand to anchor himself on the pad of the turnbuckle. He steps up...

...and Starks is grabbing his arm, pulling him off the ropes and cornering him against the post. He steps back to showboat a little- not for the benefit of a crowd, because there is no crowd or sanctioned match. Guevara had called him out, seemingly out of the blue, and Starks had time to kill, so he indulged in a little play-wrestle. The showboating, the hand gestures and taunts, the cocky strut between moves... Starks does all these things to take up time and make the situation less awkward... because Guevara's consistently out of breath or losing his footing like an amateur. It's embarrassing, so Ricky kills time while the other wrestler regains composure.

It's during one of Ricky's [practiced] cocky behaviors that Sammy is able to push against the ropes, get a good run, and flip over Starks.

Starks is ready and ducks down to assist, so the move is executed smoothly and they can potentially round on each other.

Instead of that happening, there's an unexpected bump made when Guevara's flip doesn't quite land. He's off-center and can't get his hands out for support it time, and his full body weight crunches down on his bad leg. Sure, he'd wrapped it as thick as he could, tight enough that it's a little numb from poor circulation, and he'd slipped on a padded shin guard with hope that it would protect and absorb some of the battering- but it's not enough. He's grabbing at his guarded leg with both hands and breathing like a bull through clenched teeth. There's a particularly wounded sound that works its way out of his throat, and it's shameful, high pitched and almost squealy.

Ricky is there in a second, half-bent and reaching a hand out to help Sammy up.

Sammy swats the hand away like it had personally offended him. His face is pulled into an expression of muted agony.

Ricky tries, again, to help the Spanish God up, drops down and slips an arm around Guevara-

One of Sammy's hands connect solidly with Ricky's face in retaliation. Fingers curl in dig into flesh as he grips Ricky's jaw with a punishing force. He doesn't want help; he doesn't need it... Sammy lets go when he realizes that he's lashing out against Ricky and probably shouldn't. He needs to exercise a little more self control, but it's so hard to do right now.

"Fuck, Sam..." Starks steps away from Sammy and rubs at his jaw where he'd been unexpectedly grabbed. "What happened to you?"

Sammy doesn't want to say, can't bring himself to spill. He avoids eye contact and rubs a hand too firmly over the shin guard. He pressures enough to feel his unhealed tissue and muscle rebel against the attention. And he keeps at it, pushing harder into the tissue and breathing through the added pain. He can do this. He just needs a minute. It's just Ricky. And it's just a little friendly practice. Not even actual training. He just wanted to see if he could take a few bumps in the ring.

And he _can't_. Fuck him sideways, he can't take it right now.

And then, Ricky's there with a loaded question. "What happened... while you were Space Jam'd to Moron Mountain?"

Ricky's bizarre manner of asking catches Sammy off guard enough that he lets up on his own leg's assault and huffs out a little laugh. Because, Space Jam is a brilliant movie, geared towards entertaining children and marketing an array of products- specifically, Nike shoes. It's funny, and it reminds Sammy of how he promotes his own merch. And then that backfires because... he hasn't even tried to promote anything since he's been back. And he doesn't want to. But he needs to. Part of who he is, he's a walking advertisement and he's usually _on_ all the time, except now he's so off his game...

And then there's the _Moron Mountain_ bit, referenced from the movie; it makes Sammy's head hurt and his gut clench. Because Moron Mountain is where the colorful cartoon characters were going to be imprisoned for the the amusement of aliens. While odd and generic for a movie, the idea behind it brings back the haunting memory of being stuck at a table with next to no food, water that has him either high or comatose, and... the obvious threat to his own well-being if he behaved too difficult or made an attempt to revolt.

It's not something he's talked about. He hasn't told anyone the specifics. To be fair, he hasn't been asked directly. And he's glad. Because he thought for sure he'd be bombarded by cops and doctors and cameras and no one would give him a moment of peace. None of that happened though. The authorities said to contact them if he had any information to share; the doctors were only interested in marking him up a long row of appointments and medications, and therapy sessions (physical and mental). And he'd been able to easily avoid any press... which is as weird as it is relieving.

Because, isn't he famous enough for the harassment?

Has a little time away from the ring made him irrelevant?

Some part of him- some fucked up, attention-loving part of him- wants to come forward with his story. Get that little bit of spotlight back on him.

And yet, he doesn't want people to see him like that.

Weak, vulnerable, and incapable. He's spent so much of his life building himself up, and he had literally achieved God status among fans. He doesn't want to lose that.

Why should he taint and cheapen all that he's worked for?

So, no, he doesn't tell anyone his story. He doesn't tell anyone how a little confusion with his own feelings over Jake fucking Hager led him to make a bullshit decision that would lead to kidnapping. (Godnapping? Is that a thing?) He doesn't talk about that unplanned vlog- the one in the grassy clearing that ended with gunfire. He doesn't talk about how a bullet to the leg dropped him like a stone.

Getting shot, it's not like tv and movies. In tv and movies, there's a lot of blood and people have their 'OH FUCK' moment, but then shock sets in and the brain filters out the pain, and they just slap a bandaid over it til they can get medical help, or they stitch it up themselves like a crazy badass.

Shock never set in for Sammy. There was no moment where his leg just... didn't hurt. It wasn't something he adjusted to. It hurt more than anything had ever hurt before. And he'd been gagged and restrained by two people while a third cut into his leg with a utility knife to remove the bullet...

A bullet can't stay lodged in there... so, it had to come out. That's how these things work. Can't leave it in there...

If it sounds bad in recount, it was even worse at the time.

Sammy had felt it on a vulgar, almost intimate level, the scrape of a rusty blade along his skin, the split and dip through his flesh, the plunge into the meat and tissue and muscle. Everything in him grew tense and he'd fought so hard... but he got no where in his struggle. And he hated himself for it. The more he struggled, the deeper and more jagged the cuts to his leg became.

Skin and meat came out in chunks like something from a horror movie. Like his leg was being processed at a butcher shop and some firsttimer was hacking it up against the grain. Just jabbing, and dragging the blade, cutting and cutting...

He thought he might die then. Like, maybe his leg was going to be the starting point and he was just going to be murdered in a field and his body parts would be hung on a tree like ornaments.

Clearly, that was not the case.

They just fucked him up pretty good.

He would later be informed that the bullet had never even been lodged in his calf. It had gone clean through and out the other side, so the knifing was completely unnecessary. But it served its purpose because he wouldn't have been able to make a run for it if the opportunity came. And then there had been added revelation of severity, along with the threat of a full amputation if he made too much of a fuss over anything.

So, yeah, fuck, he had incentive to keep the vlogs light. He didn't bitch about his leg. He didn't beg for anyone to find him. He was a cooperative little hostage. He didn't complain about hunger, didn't fight the fact that they were drugging his water, and he didn't complain when they brought him a roommate...

A memory crashes into him like a wave, cold and jarring. Too sudden.

Because... _He had a roommate._

It's something he hadn't thought on too hard, between the drugs in his system and the adjustment to being rescued. But yeah, he wasn't alone. Towards the end of his stay in the cellar, there's a fuzzy memory- something so rough and blurry that it might have been a dream.

Fuckin' Allin shows, tripping over his own feet, half-stumbling, mouth dripping with blood like some sort of vampire. He says something about everyone looking for Guevara, but Sammy had been too stoned to really keep up with words and their meanings.

It's really vague, but he thinks maybe Darby had tried the doors. Tried and failed to work the hinges loose.

When Thug 1 and Thug 2 came to give Sammy his almost daily roughing to keep the bruises fresh, make him a little battered and compliant, it wasn't a big deal because he could take the hits and the meds dulled the pain anyway. But Allin's turn came next, and he's pretty sure Allin was completely sober for his beating. And even then, no one puts a camera on the skater; no one puts down rules or threats or stipulations.

Allin gets no endgame.

Darby is all wide-eyes and bloodied teeth and his body is littered with bruises like he's some sort of human-dalmatian.

Sammy doesn't remember much about his roommate. Hell, there might never have been a roommate to begin with. It might have been a hallucination or a dream.

But, if he really racks his brain and tries to think on it, he almost remembers Allin's voice: "Bastard better kill me..." there's a pause while Allin spits blood and it comes out thick and stringy. "Because if not, he's dead. I'll make sure of it." There's a promise in those words and they get Sammy's unspoken approval.

-

Sammy's brought back to the present and Ricky's got him all but pinned. Breathing is hard and slow and his head feels disconnected, like something isn't plugged in all the way.

"Are you back, Sam?" Ricky's voice is chillingly calm when he speaks. "You should have told me you'd go batshit crazy over a bump to the leg. Fuck, I didn't even touch you, and you went down like a Holy Diver."

Sammy doesn't answer. He's still trying to breathe. Because breathing is important.

"What the hell happened to you?" Starks pushes the question.

And it's one Sammy has been avoiding for a while now. He doesn't answer; instead, he asks one of his own. "How's... How's Allin been?"

Ricky lets out a strange bark of a laugh that doesn't suit him at all. "Allin? Darby Allin? The half-dead human sacrifice? That garbage, piece of shit skater...-"

Guevara shoves Starks and slips out of the pin; he pulls himself up, gets to his feet and looks at Ricky with a mesh of disgust and disbelief. "That's not funny. I'm dead serious..." Sammy tries again.

Ricky shrugs and waves the Spanish God off. He gets to his feet and walks towards the edge of the ring, leans against the ropes. "Yeah, well, you're dead serious, and he's probably just dead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking title suggestions for Darby's spin-off! IT IS COMING!


	15. Getting Over, Coming Back

How it goes down, it takes quick planning and preparation.

Guevara gets new ring gear because he'd lost too much weight for his old gear to fit and he's ready for the update; he's leaner than he's been in a while but his build is firm and looks damn good when he flexes. It _feels_ good, getting back into his gear and showing off how even his spray tan is. He's flexing and practicing faces in the mirror, flicking his tongue out and perfecting his look.

Jericho kneels beside him, drops down on one knee to apply pain relieving cream and carefully wrap Sammy's calf under the supervision of a paid/bribed medic.

It's personal like this, Chris being hands-on with the assist. But Sammy doesn't mind. The man is like a father to him. "Thanks," he says when there is enough padded gauze around his leg to hide the unflattering dip from the injury. Doctors told him they could cosmetically fix it, but the surgery would be fairly extensive, and he'd immediately refused. The necrotic flesh had been cut away and cadaver skin had been used to cover; the stitch work was clean and it wouldn't look too unsightly when it healed... if one could ignore that the leg itself was misshapen.

Once the calf was wrapped, Jericho gave the bandaged limb an experimental pat and then a squeeze. "Does that hurt?" he asks, and there's a fair amount of concern and curiosity there.

It _didn't_ feel good; it was still sore; the young wrestler's teeth connected and he willfully controlled his breathing. But... it wasn't agonizing like it had been before, so Sammy shrugged and said: "It's good, yeah. Feels real good. Ready to go out there and-"

"You're not wrestling yet," Chris jumps in, and it's unsettling because it seems like he keeps _needing_ to throw in that reminder. "It's just an appearance."

Sammy doesn't comment on that. He wants to wrestle. He wants to be back where he was before this fiasco even started. But he understands, in order for that to happen, he's going to need to work for it. He needs a little time in his own personal Hyperbolic Time Chamber.

Jericho adjusts the shin guards and then takes his time tying the young man's shoes. He doesn't mind doing it. He's been helping the kid for a while, and he's had further experience in caretaking since Orange Cassidy became a more prominent part of his life. The human-sloth has tested his patience on several occasions, and it's been as gratifying as it has been humbling to help the vitamin deficient wrestler through a few rough spots. So, to help Sammy- it's a no-brainer. He's all for it.

Chris stands and looks the pandescent wrestler over, and the kid looks good. Better than expected.

"So," Sammy cuts in, to clarify, "are we recording this and cutting it into the promo, or am I waiting a few hours and doing this live?"

Chris frowns at the question- not because it's a stupid question; it's a very good one- but because he's explained this already. More than a few times. And he isn't sure if Sammy just isn't paying attention, or if he doesn't remember. "Maybe we should wait a couple more weeks, let you get checked over again before we do this." He makes the suggestion and a large part of him hopes his protege agrees.

It had been initially Hager's insistence, not to throw the kid back into the spotlight right away. But Hager's intentions, while good, were self-serving.

If Jake steps away from wrestling, he's busy enough and has other things to fall back on. Between training, MMA, and his degree in business...

But for a lot of wrestlers, particularly the younger ones, this is all they have. And while this is an obvious fact, the point wasn't driven home for Chris until Orange had confessed _'I just want to wrestle. Good or bad, it's what I know.'_ He figures Guevara's mindset and priorities are similar, which is why he was quick to jump on board. If Sammy is working with them in a controlled environment, they can keep things from getting out of hand. If they were to deny the young wrestler, there's no reason the Spanish God couldn't get himself booked elsewhere.

So, it's left open. They're pulling the Spanish God back into the fold and making it a public spectacle. But Chris also proposes that they wait.

Because they _should_ wait.

Because Sammy's mind doesn't hold focus and it could be due to trauma.

But the look on the Guevara's face is answer enough. Eyes wide, brows dipped in confusion, and mouth open in surprise. He looks like he'd just been slapped and isn't sure how to react. "I can handle this..." He states this, and he believes this- he needs Chris to believe it too. He needs everyone to have faith in him like they used to, like he's still the same guy and not some victimized thing that's been dumped curbside.

Jericho is quiet for a measured length of time before he reminds the young man: "Sammy, we already shot and aired the promo- had the camera catch you holding one of your cards in the background. Fans received that positively and they're expecting your return..."

Sammy's eyes get a little wider and his breath catches. In that moment, he looks genuinely scared. He doesn't remember the promo.

_When the fuck did they shoot a promo?_

The way Jericho averts his eyes when he realizes that Guevara has no idea what he's talking about... it's terrible.

Sammy feels a little sick, like he's just let down his hero. Like he's failed irrevocably. "Just... run tonight by me again," he pleads. "One more time... Last time, I swear."

Chris sighs heavily and shakes his head. Because maybe this is a big mistake.

"Please?" Sammy tries again, and he looks absolutely crushed.

Chris can't tell him no. "We're going to record a short interview segment, play it on the Titantron halfway through Dynamite, and then bring you in for an actual appearance towards the end of the main event. You'll come down from an elevated platform, flip a 630 on Moxley, and we'll close out shortly after."

Sammy nods and lets it all sink in.

He doesn't say a word about how his insides freeze up, knowing how he very well could fuck up the 630.

He steps away from his Papa Bear and swallows down his fear.

He's making a comeback. It's finally happening.

This has to be enough.

It _is_ enough.

So, why doesn't it feel right?


	16. Enlightenment

The Titantron is the center of everyone's focus as Take Flight by Monteasy plays and the big screen projects a dimly lit room with a single occupant as the main focus. His fingers twitch and fidget and flex and rub over his hands, his eyes are cast downward, and when he speaks, his voice is low and steady.

"There's this story... about a religious guy who seeks answers." He flicks his tongue out to wet his lips. "He gets told by some prophet... to go to a condemned, dilapidated building and sit in a specific corner for three days, to achieve enlightenment." He pauses, scrapes his shoe along the cement flooring beneath him. "He does that. Goes to the place, sits in a corner. Two days in, a rusty drainage pipe above him bursts and covers him in debris and sewage. He sits there til the third day... and then goes home." Another pause, a deep breath, and he lifts his chin, eyes meeting the camera dead on; there's a startling gleam to them. "Some can argue that he learned nothing; they might call him literal shit head. But I think he found enlightenment." Sammy Guevara rises to his feet, splays his arms out wide and tosses his head back likes he's posing for a crucifixion. When he tilts his head forward once more, he concludes: "Revelations are not given just because you ask. They are taken by those hungry enough to make that grab..." For emphasis, he reaches a hand out and and clenches a fist at the camera's fisheye lens. Last words come as: "Your Spanish God is still rising, still burning brighter than any star. I won't burn out so easy."

The picture drops and showcases his feet as he walks away; the video fades out.

Fans, along with uninformed talent and crew, break into a chorus of cheers and questions and commentary.

-

The main event comes entirely too soon.

Guevara's nerves are on fire, stirring under his skin and hurting gut-deep. He's in the back, counting down the time to make his appearance.

Ricky wishes him luck, tells him to "Break a leg."

Sammy really wishes different words had been used. Because breaking something is a very real possibility when he takes that dive and goes for that senton.

It's Jake Hager who comes to his aid though. The big guy approaches without word or warning and pulls him in for the most reassuring hug he's had in a while. It's warm and all-encompassing, and it's exactly what he needed. But there's more. Because Jake opens his mouth and-

-"Tuck your injured leg against your good one. Left under right, during the jump. Not tight enough to restrict your movement, but firm enough that it compensates for you being off-balance."

On instinct, Sammy listens, tucks his bad leg against his good one, and there's instant relief he hadn't known he needed. The advice is sound, and he hopes it'll get him through the 630 senton. He returns the hug and takes a deep breath. The smell of Jake's sweat is oddly comforting; he can almost taste it and on some level he yearns to. His breath is hot against Jake's chest and his mouth is open to take in as much of that musk as he can. It's dizzying in a pleasant way, better than the drugs that dull the pain in his leg. It puts him at ease and calms him like a warm fuzzy blanket on a cold night. When he pulls away, his there's a rounded wet mark on Hager's shirt where the cub's mouth had been.

And he's pretty sure he felt a nipple perk before he'd pulled back... The little nub is just enough to make him smile.

It's a significant reminder that their relationship was going so well before, and since he'd been back it had been put on hold.

He'd like to change that.

After Dynamite.

It'll be an amazing way to celebrate his return.

The lights go out and there's a fair amount of [staged] accusation between Moxley and MJF in the ring, both blaming the other for starting shit.

Meanwhile, Sammy climbs the scaffolding, up into the rafters and makes his way to a thin strip of platform elevated by wires. It doesn't feel very steady and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little concerned about this.

It's not something he usually does.

He likes loud and fun and gimmicky.

He doesn't go for leaps like this. It's more Allin's thing. The recklessness, the danger, and the height.

_Darby, man, this is for you. Don't be dead._

Sammy is going to try his damnedest.

He casts his eyes downward, to get an idea of where his mark is to land. He can make out the shape of the body he's supposed to land on.

"Catch me good and break my fall, Mox," he says under his breath.

He makes the jump; it's a smooth dive.

The lights come on in time to catch his impressive flips.

The crowd erupts in gasps and elated shrieks, fingers pointing in shock and awe.

Sammy's going to stick the landing. He's going to, he's going to...!

Mox is right there.

But Sammy misses Moxley and drops down on Maxwell Jacob Friedman.

It's not a great landing; his back is sore and not entirely ready for the abuse, but Guevara is just happy to have landed. It isn't until he's laying there, propped up by MJF's fallen form, breathing hard, and Jon's big meaty hand is reaching to help him up that he realizes he bowled over the wrong person. He squints his eyes shut and drops his head back and mouths a quiet: _"Oh, for fuck's sake!"_

He is going to get heat for fucking that up. This was going to play into an ongoing storyline, and he hit the wrong man.

Moxley grabs Guevara's hand and pulls the younger wrestler to his feet. He leans in and asks if Sammy is okay, and Sammy nods and verbally affirms.

The cameras don't catch the conversation, but from the viewers' points of view, it appears as if the two men are on good terms.

MJF is slow to get up. When he does, he looks livid, eyes wide, nostrils flared, and face red with anger. This is part of _his_ storyline, and the kid botched it.

The commentators roll with it: "Well, I dunno, it appears as if-"

"Is that SAMMY GUEVARA? Where did he come from?!"

"-Has the Spanish God formed an alliance with Jon Moxley? And what about MJF?"

The show closes out with MJF storming off, commentators tossing around plausible theories, and Moxley escorting Guevara out of the ring and to the back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can we just appreciate that Jake Hager's Nipple has made it into my list of tags?


	17. Sketchy ARTWORK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are terrible, but... I figured I'd share them anyway. Unpolished sketches, now being colored!  
> I wanted to show off a rough idea of where Sammy's injury is, as well as how large it is.  
> Also, figured I'd draw him lean because of the weight he dropped.<  
> Bonus: Hager giving him a little TLC.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone for their support this far! Hope it's been as fun for you as it has for me!  
> Stay tuned!


	18. Sell Your Soul

That feeling, like the world is coming to some sort of apocalyptic end and there's only one person to blame, that's the weight Guevara bears when he lands backstage after Dynamite. He gets some of the worst, most accusing stares he's ever had. And while, yeah, a as a heel, he expects that, it's different when he gets these looks from people that are supposed to be his friends. He wants to explain himself, but he's not sure what to say.

_I fucked up?_

_I wasn't ready?_

_It was an accident?_

Nothing seems good enough, so he doesn't waste his time with excuses. For the first time in a long time, Sammy feels like he's truly failed at something, and that horrible feeling fights so strongly with his natural optimism that his insides twist and pull and bite at each other to the point of feeling sick. But he's not sick. Just like he's not a failure. One mistake does not make or break a person; it just gives them incentive to do better.

And if there's one thing Sammy Guevara likes to do other than promote himself and his merch, it's evolve. He can do that. And he can have a damn good attitude about it while he does.

_#workharder_

The drive is there, but the determination does nothing to shield him against the fact that MJF is reaming him with a raised voice: "The continuity of _MY_ storyline is not worth your half-assed cameo!" The man punctuates the angered words with a degrading open-palmed slap to Sammy's face that has the Spanish God instantly recoiling in surprise.

It shouldn't sting as bad as it did; his pride hurts more than the slap had. It was just one mistake. He's made mistakes before; so have a number of others. All Out alone was riddled with botches here and there- Sydal with his Shooting Star Press comes to mind... So, was one little misstep that bad? Was it not redeemable with a clever script?

Sammy isn't sure what to say to make this right, so he doesn't verbally defend himself. He doesn't enact any form of retaliation for the slap either.

MJF is more than a little disgruntled, and he has every right to be; he's a professional in his own right, and he expects everyone else to be impeccable as well. He doesn't want the excuses. He says as much, then follows it up with a hard kick into the padded guard on Sammy's shin. It's a glancing blow, and when Maxwell's foot scrapes the guarded calf more than the actual shin Guevara's entire demeanor visibly crumbles, face twisting in something beyond discomfort and teeth grinding so hard that they creak under pressure.

Sammy's bad leg buckles and he draws it off the floor and tucks it against his good leg for protection. He's trying not to overreact, but the breaths he tries to control through his nose are more harsh and stuttering than even. It passes though. His breathing returns to normal and he gradually eases his bad leg back onto the floor. "You... fuckin'... bag o' dicks," he mutters. He doesn't even think about what he's saying when he speaks. He just knows, in that moment, that MJF is at fault for his pain.

MJF thinks it's a ploy, drawn out with bad acting. After all, Guevara's physical health status hasn't been a big topic post-rescue; almost no one has seen or heard about the leg.

Little backstage tussles and brawls happen often enough that it's almost expected when something goes wrong.

Thing is, when a fight breaks out, both people are supposed to be keyed up and into it. So, when he attacks Guevara with a mean sweep of his leg, Sammy is supposed to get up and answer with his own assault.

But that doesn't happen.

The sweep dropped Sammy to the ground and the young man stayed there. The look on his face was a mix of pain, disappointment, anger, and betrayal. The kid has never been so openly raw, and it's as alarming as it is intriguing that the Spanish God's expression is like origami, folding in on itself to create new shapes.

Chaos unfolds in that instant; Hager and Moxley are at Sammy's side as quickly as can be. Hager takes a shot at Maxwell, shoves him hard enough to send him into a wall, corners him and delivers a hard knee. Wardlow is there to back up Maxwell, ready to take on the world to defend MJF. But Moxley cuts between Wardlow and the others and simultaneously nails the giant with a running front dropkick that has Wardlow down but getting back up in quick succession.

None of this is scripted. Feelings are raw and uneasy, testosterone is overflowing, and no one is showing any signs of slowing down.

"Sammy's a baby," MJF shouts when he manages to slip out of the corner and catch his breath. "He's Jericho's little bitch-baby, and that fake kidnapping stunt was just a ploy to turn Face! Everybody knows it, nobody likes it! And I am so sick of seeing all the stupid panda shit everywhere!" Maxwell is so tired of the kid throwing himself into the spotlight. It's gone too far now that's it's potentially interfered with his own work.

Jake doesn't think before he acts; he just grabs Maxwell Jacob Friedman and slams him down spine-first on the concrete floor, delivers a kick to his ribcage, and then Wardlow lands a fist to the side of Mox's head that has the brawler dizzy on his feet, leaving Wardlow to make a grab at Hager. Mox regains his wits in time to nail Wardlow with a crossbody, and then he and Hager make eye contact for a split second- to confirm that, yeah, they've got this.

But their double-team assault on the big guy leaves MJF open to move in on Guevara.

It gets too loud, too fast, everyone seeming to take sides or make failed attempts to break up the fight as it spreads like an infectious disease.

That is, until Sammy willfully gets up, picks up a folding chair and throws it against the wall. The loud clatter gets everyone's attention and the room is blanketed in a veil of quiet. Everything grows hauntingly still, breaths are held, eyes are glued to the Spanish God. "This is all my fault. And I can explain." Sammy takes a breath and lowers his gaze. He can't bring himself to look at anyone while he does this, so he keeps his focus down as he bends to remove his protective gear.

"Sammy-" Jake tries to warn him against the action.

"We don't need to see it, kid," Mox tries. He hasn't seen the injury, but he knows. He can tell by the way the young wrestler moves, that there is something horribly wrong with that busted limb.

Sammy doesn't listen. The shin guard comes off, and little by little, he peels away the padded gauze to reveal the disaster area of his calf. It looks better than it had before. Whereas the serrated tissue and exposed muscle had been raw and unsightly, the cadaver skin covered up a lot of the ugly. There was still a noticeable dip where the muscle had been literally cut away; it doesn't just grow back. The stitching around the flesh-patch is a little bubbled where it is still healing and his actual skin is trying to adhere to it. It's rough to look at, so Sammy doesn't look. He does, however, lightly run his hand over it. He feels the slight differentiation in texture between his natural skin, the stitching, and the cadaver skin.

It's a little nauseating.

He feels up his own injury and, without any thought or preamble, just digs his thumb into he most tender part of it. It hurts, but it's a good kind of hurt; the kind that grounds him and keeps him here in the present. And being here means that he's gotten out of his drug-induced stupor and his kidnapping and everything else bad. Being here, feeling that pain, it's a reminder that he's regained freedom and a sense of self.

Everything is- and is going to be- okay.

He's better, dammit. And he's going to make sure people know that.

He lets up on his injury before he speaks. "Shit happened." His voice takes on a steady and confident tone. "I'm a little off my game, but I'm working on it. Moxley was my mark, and I missed. I'm sorry. Okay? I'm just tired of sitting out like an unused decoration. I needed to get back in there."

He says this, but on a rational level, he knows he should have never been cleared by the medic, should have never begged Chris to bribe the doc. Should have never made that jump. Probably shouldn't even be there on Dynamite.

Tony Khan, strolls over with an entirely too casual air, grabs and sets up the chair Sammy had previously thrown, and he takes a seat right there. "Everyone can settle down and shut up. This- we can work with this. MJF, you know your alliance with the Inner Circle isn't going to last; it wasn't supposed to anyway, so it's not a loss. You have a target on Guevara's back. Guevara, you can cut a vid with that nasty leg reveal- fans will want to see it and cheer for your recovery-"

"I've already recovered," Sammy cuts in with a claim. As he says this, there's a little moisture around his eyes that he will steadfastly claim to be sweat. "I don't want to do a leg reveal."

Khan takes a long suffering sigh and rubs at the bridge of his nose, feeling like he's dealing with a petulant child. "I want that reveal; it's too good to pass up. Think of it like any other injury you've been excited to show off."

Sammy drops his head. Because this is different. It's not some bloody gash or scar he got in the ring. It's personal. "I didn't fake the kidnapping," he mutters, and he doesn't have to look to know everyone's eyes are on him. "I wouldn't do that. It was real. And this thing with my leg is real. And-"

Khan interrupts: "You either can or can't perform. If you need a break, we can write you out of the show. We've got new talent lined up-"

Sammy's worked too hard to get here. He can't lose it. 

He won't lose it.

_Fake it til you make it._

He throws on a horrifically fake smile and regards Tony with a manner that appears friendly enough but it's clear that the young wrestler is ripping at the seams. "Hey, you're right. I can or can't. And I _can_ \- so, I guess..." he lets out a little laugh but his eyes shine with repressed tears. "Yeah, so, leg reveal. I mean, look at that." He reaches and pats at the stitched, discolored cadaver-skin patch. "Too good to pass up. And who wouldn't want a feud with MJF? It'll be fun, fans will like it. I mean... he's better than everyone, right?" He pauses, dramatically so. "But... y'know... I'm a Spanish God, so, we'll see how that plays out."

Watching the kid work through his speech, the filter of emotion he's trying to rein in, it's like a train wreck or a car crash.

Hard to turn away from.

It's borderline damning.

It's obvious he's trying to pull himself together, and he's failing.

"Maxwell, what do you say?" Sammy tries to get the other wrestler to agree. If they run script, film a little, string together a promo or two, after a match (or three) things can be back on track. It's a pain and a hassle, but it is workable. He needs this to work.

MJF sneers at Guevara. "I'll feud with you... on my conditions." The way he says it, it's as snide as it is sinister.

Sammy's insides freeze with anticipation. He licks his lips and prompts: "Yeah?"

" _When_ we have our feud, and you lose- because you _will_ lose-"

It's Khan who interrupts. "No. Guevara's not going to be cleared to wrestle for quite a while. His leg is fucked, and I don't need any lawsuits. But I do want to write this. I want to see you fight Jericho in place of Guevara, and of course Hager and Wardlow will battle it out- People will want to see that. And the outcome can be reflected by Guevara's recovery. This will work. And maybe we can pitch Moxley in, run with the angle that he's upset over Allin's disappearance and using Guevara as a replacement-"

"Fuck you and your script, Khan," Mox cuts in. It's too degrading and disrespectful. He won't do that. He won't cheapen the respect he has for Darby. The _feelings_ he has for Darby...

Hager feels for Mox; he gets it. Having lost his cub for entirely too long, he understands the empty ache and the sleepless nights and how very few things seem to matter when that is the core focus from day to day. Loss is terrible that way.

Sammy's brows draw together in deep thought. "I might have seen Allin-" and it's the first he's mentioned it. He's still not certain. The memory is a fuzzy one.

The look that comes over Mox's face is nothing short of despairing, all wide eyes and scarcely repressed hope. "Don't you lie to me, Sammy. Don't do that. Not about that kid-"

Sammy shakes his had and digs deeper into his own head, tugging at the frayed seams of a drug-addled memory. "Allin doesn't get a story..."

Everyone is quiet, breath bated. Except for MJF who is muttering under his breath, damning Guevara and making a claim that the young man is lying for more attention.

Mox is holding onto Sammy's every word, growing more concerned by the moment.

"When I was there... there were rules. And there were videos. I was supposed to get out of there. But Allin... didn't get any rules or videos. I don't think he makes it. No movie, no sequel."

Tension rises, growing thick. No one is quite sure how to react to this.

Hager takes his cub into his arms and holds him close. They've come this far; they'll get through this too.

It is that precise moment that Chris Jericho makes an appearance. He'd missed everything, including the 630 senton. His face is drawn and he looks tired. "Wha'd I miss?"

"Your panda-brat," MJF spits out, "botched his little stunt and landed on me. ME: the undefeated, undisputed, uncrowned champion-"

"Get to it," Jericho waves him off, not in the mood to deal with a running bit.

MJF huffs indignantly but complies. "Your panda-brat botched and put a wrinkle in the tapestry that is my storyline."

Jericho waves a hand like he's wiping the matter away. "Max, Max, Max..."

"Chrissy," Maxwell chimes in, having a feeling that this is going nowhere he wants it to.

"I don't give a fuck about your little storyline right now," Jericho drops an f-bomb and some harsh honest words but there's no malice in how he says it. He just looks tired, like he's aged five to ten years and is ready to throw in the towel.

Hager isn't the first to pick up on it but he is the first to ask: "Chris, where were you during Sammy's jump?"

Because Chris should have been there.

Jericho shakes his head and doesn't answer. It's private. And he'll keep it that way. "It's late. I'm going to skip the after party and head home."

Sammy peels himself away from Jake, walks over to Chris, his gait careful and his limp not as prominent as expected. His arms encircle his mentor, boss, and father figure, and he hugs tight. "Mind if I catch a ride with you, Papa Bear?"

Chris pats Sammy on the back. "Yeah. Jake too."

Hager takes his cue and moves to stand with them. They're Proud and Powerful shy of being complete.

There's a moment where MJF and Wardlow stare them down, but the tension is expected and cast aside.

With Khan telling them that he'll get them a script before the week is up, they're dismissed and head out.

Chris had been driven there, so they take Jake's car, Sammy in the back, still in is gear and feeling entirely too drained.

"You missed my 630-" Sammy says after they've been in the car and on the road for a few minutes or so.

Jericho sighs heavily. "I did, Sammy, I did. I missed it. But only because-" there's a pause while Le Champion collects himself before he continues with: "Cassidy is in the hospital. I know it's not an excuse to miss your big moment, but I did what I felt I had to do."

Sammy gets it, even if it stings a little.

Jake gets it, and he probably would have done the same thing if roles were reversed. "Fruitcake going to be alright?" He feels obligated to ask.

Jericho takes time to answer, his words chosen a little too carefully. "It's nothing life-threatening."

They don't question the matter further. If Chris wanted them to know, he would have outright said as much.

Getting to Chris's condo, parking and then getting inside, what had always seemed like a warm and welcoming environment suddenly seems cold and impersonal.

Chris pours three stiff drinks and takes a seat across from Jake while Sammy excuses himself to the bathroom.

But Sammy doesn't just go to the bathroom. There's a significant amount of guilt and shame as he roots around the bathroom cabinet and comes across a series of bottles. Everything from Aspirin and Ibuprofen, to Orange's vitamin supplements and oral steroids, to harder painkillers. He thumbs over all the bottles and skims the labels. He has a case of hot nerves but pushes it down, grabs a bottle, uncaps and dry-swallows a few. His eyes slam shut and he hates himself a little for what he's just done.

But he's run out of his own meds and he's out of refills, and Jake doesn't keep any.

And his leg hurts.

But maybe it doesn't hurt _that_ bad.

He just can't bring himself to admit addiction. It's not like he has to have them all the time. So it's not bad. Not really. A couple pills here and there just take the edge off, and today had sucked so bad. He tells himself he deserves it; it'll make him feel better. It'll help get rid of that awful feeling inside.

But first, he has to get over the shame. Swallow it down, digest it, let his insides turn it to acid.

He waits a few minutes but doesn't feel any effect, so he reclaims the bottle and just takes a few more- enough to fill his palm.

He tells himself he has self-restraint when he caps the bottle and slides it back into its proper place.

No one will notice, he's sure.

He exits the bathroom and regroups with Jake and Chris; he grabs the drink that had been poured for him, chugs it down in one go and drops into Hager's lap.

"A little bold there, Sammy?" Jake asks, and he's genuinely surprised.

Chris smiles at the open display. "Kid knows what he likes, Jake. Be sure to take care of him." The words are as fond as they are envious. His own heart is heavy with concern for Orange but the stubborn sloth insisted that he go watch Sammy. Otherwise, he'd still be at the hospital.

Jake has a loose hold on his cub as he turns his attention back to Jericho. "So, you say Fruitcake is sick again?"

Chris shakes his head. "I don't know. He was fine, and then he just wasn't. I thought he fell asleep, but he wouldn't wake up. Completely unresponsive. Last I checked, he's coming around, conscious. Best Friends are keeping an eye on him and Santana and Ortiz said something about getting him Get Well presents."

It's selfish and immature, but in that moment, Sammy wants a Get Well gift. He was gone for well over a couple months, and no one gave him anything for it. It's a stupid thought, and the absurdity of it makes him laugh. It starts off as a quiet giggle and evolves into something harsh and unflattering.

"You okay, Sammy?" Jake has to ask, there's no obvious explanation for the outburst. He places a gentle hand on the young man's cheek an looks him in the eye and- "You're stoned out of your mind, kid... Jesus, fuck."

"He doesn't smell like pot, and he barely had one glass of-" Chris cuts in, trying to sort through reasoning.

Jake shakes his head in sorrowful sympathy; he doesn't explain. He isn't sure what to do.

It isn't fair to expect the young man to just be okay after everything he's been through.

-

Meanwhile, Orange Cassidy is stuck in a hospital bed, laying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. Chuck and Trent are trying their best to keep him entertained, but he's tired, and between the IV in his hand and the nurse that keeps making special trips to see him, he's not up to it. Thankfully they're just keeping him for observation, then sending him on his way with an injection and some bullshit suggestions about taking things _easy_.

Easy is all Orange knows.

He can do that.

But first- "Chuck, can you get that slutty nurse in here?"

Chuck looks surprised at that. "You're into that? She's got that mole..."

Trent follows up: "And what about your man? You've got Le Champion waiting for you."

Orange takes a deep breath and carefully sits up. Everything is stiff and sore. "I just want the IV out. And I want to know when I can leave."

-

In Moxley's humble opinion, Tony Khan can take his script and shove it up his ass.

He's in a cheap motel room, re-watching all those awful vlogs Sammy's kidnapper had posted. Because, maybe there's something there that they all missed.

Maybe...

And there it is.

In the last video, the very last one, something is off. Something is different. Whereas the usual setting is there, with the dingy cellar and the table and the drugged out Guevara, there's a skateboard propped up against the back wall.

Moxley stares intently at it, heart hammering in his chest.

He goes back and watches and re-watches again, all the videos. Sure enough, that is the only one where the skateboard is present.

There is a very real chance that Darby was taken and held in the same location, which means that Guevara's half-memory might be valid.

Which is as relieving as it is damning.

Because, yes, it is a lead. But no, oh hell no, because... Sammy had been so sure that Darby wasn't supposed to get out of there.

Jon doesn't sleep. Doesn't stay in the hotel room.

Dead or alive, he's going to find that kid.

Preferably alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch. I feel bad here. But I promise this is all going somewhere. I have the rest of this story planned out and outlined. Just gotta get there!
> 
> Also, no disrespect to Tony Khan. Love the guy.


	19. Necessitate

Jake and Sammy had left Jericho's, allowing Chris a guilt-free trip back to the hospital to see Orange. Visiting hours were over, but one thing Le Champion has is enough fame and pull to get his way.

Upon entering Orange's private room, he's met with the sight of Best Friends playing Go Fish with Santana and Ortiz while Orange plays with what is apparently his Get Well present... and it's a collectible figure with the obvious resemblance to Dwayne 'The Rock' Johnson. Beside him, anchored to a cheap coffee mug is a helium balloon that boldly declares: IT'S a GIRL!

Chris doesn't think too hard on it, just stands in the doorway and watches Orange raise and lower the arms of The Rock, bend the knees and make crashing sound effects. It's... stupidly adorable. That, along with the fact that Ortiz sounds too smug when he tells Chuck to 'Go Fish,' it's a bit much, so Jericho clears his throat to gain everyone's attention while he walks further into the room.

Like he hadn't just been an outsider looking in.

"Everything going alright?" He feels dumb for asking. Is anything ever good in a hospital?

Trent is the one who speaks first. "Juice here is just waiting for the papers to be processed so he can go."

Orange looks better than the last time Chris had seen him. It helps to see his un-glassed eyes bright with amusement as he holds up his action figure.

"J-Bear. J-Bear, look. It's The Rock," and he seems genuinely happy too.

It's just infectious enough to get a grin out of the Demo God. "You like that?"

Orange doesn't answer the question because it's entirely too obvious that he's having a good time.

Chuck throws down a pair of cards and nudges Santana to take his turn.

Santana draws, then asks: "Sammy nail that 630?"

Jericho isn't ready to open that can of worms, so he doesn't. "Could have gone better. He's with Jake now."

"Licking his wounds?" Ortiz asks, assuming the senton didn't quite land.

Santana is close behind with a followup of: "No, probably having Jake lick the wounds for him. They're probably boning, roleplaying some kinky shit, man. They seem like the type..."

A thought occurs then, to Chuck, and he feels the need to suggest: "Hey, we got time to kill, so we should play _Would You Rather_. Lots of fun. I'll start-"

-

Jake's got Sammy back at his place, and he's at his wits end. The panda cub is back in his arms, so all the hard shit should be over, but it isn't.

"How long have you been abusing your medication?" He'd tried asking several times since he'd gotten the young man alone, but Sammy has been either evasive or ignorant of the question.

"You work hard, and you work harder, and you put everything into one thing... and then it's just taken away from you... Except, it's not you. It's me. And I have... like, nothing." Sammy's voice is soft, not quite slurred. But the drugs in his system have him dragging along some of his words.

Jake holds his cub close and runs a hand through his hair in a soothing gesture. "You haven't lost anything."

A bitter chuckle bubbles up from Sammy's chest but he doesn't verbally refute.

"You're here, Samcub. And I'm here. And..." Jake trails off, and then an idea hits him. So he goes for it. He withdraws his arms from his cub and gets up. "Out of bed. Now." His voice is firm. Not mean, but definitely unyielding.

It gets Guevara's attention and has his face pinching in concentration. He feels like he's being scolded. It's not a good feeling, but it jars something in him, sobers him up a little. He sits up and looks at Hager expectantly.

"Out of bed," Hager's using his ' _Sir_ ' voice, and his cub's natural inclination is to tune into it and oblige.

Sammy's eyes hold an impressive level of focus as he gets out of bed and to his feet. He doesn't even seem to notice when he puts his full weight on his busted leg; whether that's from the medication or his laser-focus on Hager, it's hard to say.

Jake takes the focus as a positive thing and pushes it a little. "On you knees," he instructs, voice steady, calm, reassuring.

And that voice, to Sammy, in that moment- the voice is everything. He listens, drops down onto his knees, shifts to get comfortable and directs his attention up to his sir.

"I need to know two things, Samcub. Redlight or Greenlight? And, do you remember your safe word?" The question is straightforward. It needs to be. There can be no error in communication.

The cub nods and drops his gaze to his Sir's feet. "Yessir. Greenlight. And... my safe word is Hardy."

"Look at me," Jake wants to see his cub's face, to make sure he understands. When Sammy turns those eyes to him, Jake is further instilled with the need to protect the young man. "You're so focused on what you think you do or don't have... You think you've lost something, and maybe you have. But..." he pauses, bites his lip and really thinks before he adds: "I want to remind you of what is right here. Right now." He takes a step and leans a little, closes the gap between himself and his cub, places a hand on Sammy's head and draws him close so that Sammy's face is against his sir's leg, fairly close to his denim-clad genitals.

It isn't meant to be sexual.

And Sammy doesn't take it as such. Bless that cub, he wraps his arms around one of Hager's legs and hugs, nuzzles his cheek against that muscular thigh and takes comfort in being able to hold onto something so solid. There's no stress or pressure in that moment. No arms around him to suffocate or enforce obligatory reciprocation. Sammy can just hold onto that sturdy leg and breathe...

...and it smells like Jake fuckin' Hager.

And it's a good, comforting, masculine smell.

Sammy nuzzles and rubs his face, nose, cheeks, and chin, and then his mouth opens to breathe hotly against the denim. His teeth clip together to nip at the jean material. He nips and he tugs with his teeth, and then he presses open-mouthed kisses along the expanse of that thigh, tongue trailing warm and wet until the fabric is dampening. His heartbeat quickens and his breath draws in deep through his nose, and he's admittedly horny enough that he grinds against that leg.

Jake puts a stop to it, before things get out of hand, because that isn't his endgame. "Sammy- Samcub, no. Wait..." Both hands come to rest on either side of his cub's face, fingers warm and callouses rubbing just enough to show strength and security and safety.

Sammy closes his eyes and enjoys that feeling.

Hager caresses and holds, soft, caring... He unwraps his cub from his leg and lifts, places him on the bed and crawls over top, knees on either side of the young man's waist. "I need you to know... Samcub, you need to know that you haven't lost anything. You've gained... so much." He places a hand on his cub's abdomen, lets his fingers tease just under the hem of the shirt before riding up, exposing smooth flesh and gliding over taut abs. "It might be hard to fully comprehend, but everyone pulled together to help you. So many people care..." He pauses, pushes the shirt up further, traces feather-light patterns over the expanse of ribs and obliques doubles back to rest over defined pecs. "I care. And what's more-" he concentrates on Sammy's beating heart, feels the pulse thrumming with life and expectation. "I... I love you, Sammy." He rolls his eyes to meet that of his cub's.

Sammy's eyes are wide and glistening with unshed tears. He opens his mouth but only a choked sound comes out.

"Don't cry, cub," Jake instructs, but his Sir-tone is gone. His free hand comes up to wipe away the moisture in the younger man's eyes. "Don't cry, okay? Just... say something."

Sammy takes a moment, swallows hard, clears his throat and then says... "something."

And Jake smiles a little balefully. "That's fair, Sammy. Good boy."

"I'm sorry-" the apology comes seemingly out of nowhere, but Guevara seems so sincere, so earnest, so completely coherent. "I really will get better. It's just hard. Will you help me?" He doesn't like asking for help. It wounds his pride a little. But this is Jake. And Jake is good and safe and everything he needs right now.

Jake doesn't even have to think on it before he replies: "Yeah, Samcub. I'll help. But you need to do your part. Okay?"

Sammy answers with a nod and sits up enough to remove his shirt all the way. Then he grabs at Jake's. "I know my role, if you wanna- y'know. Adult stuff."

And Jake _does_ want to. So bad. But not until he knows his cub is ready.

There will be no regrets or sad thoughts connected with their first time going all the way.

They'll get there.

But for now... he dips down and his mouth covers a small dark nipple. It's a tiny thing and the flesh is pleasant against his lips. He licks and nips, sucks and bites at nipples and broad expanses of chest and neck and shoulder- anywhere he can reach while his hands hold and massage those bony hips, thumbs occasionally dipping low and just close enough towards Sammy's lower extremities to get a rise out of the cub.

Jake feels up the young wrestler and eventually their mouths connect, and it's something sweet and soulful. Tender and needy.

And it's not even the least bit awkward when his Samcub cums untouched, soils his clothes and then simply lays there panting with a neck and chest full of hickeys.

Jake smiles down at his blissed-out partner and can't help asking: "Hey... How do you feel?"

It takes a moment for the cub to get his voice to work, but then he does: "Good. Really good, Sir."

And Jake is a little hesitant but he has to ask: "...better than your painkillers?"

Sammy's eyes are completely clear, sober, and honest when he answers with: "Yeah. It is. But you can't just get me off whenever I'm hurting."

Jake mulls it over, rolls his head to the side, cracks his neck, and- "Don't tell me what I can't do. I can get you off whenever I want. And you'll thank me for it, like a good cub."


	20. What We Become

Life happens in stages, flashes, commercial breaks between segments of monumental tv. And if that tv has a play/pause and rewind/fastforward option, then Guevara's entrusted Hager with the figurative remote.

It should be alarming or, at the very least, annoying that every time the pandescent wrestler turns around, Hager is right there, but it isn't. Instead, it's reassuring.

They cut a short vid that showcases the leg injury and reveals nothing on how it happened, leaving fans to string together their own theories and prayers for recovery. That's all Khan gets, and it'll have to be enough until Sammy is ready to offer more.

MJF throws out his own script in favor of making his speech come across as more genuine, and he's good at what he does as he gets in the face of the Spanish God and calls him out for his bullshit stunt. He's doing a bit, playing within guidelines, but his frustration and malice are genuine factors bleeding into the performance.

Hager knows his role and acts accordingly, stands as backup for the Inner Circle's youngest member as well as Le Champion himself when Jericho comes between Maxwell and Sammy, verbally dismantling their collective enemy.

"No one disrespects a member of the Inner Circle without answering to me, you pampered son of a bitch!" Jericho's voice is loud and booming like everything he does. All that flash and attitude with talent and promise to back it up. He's got his Papa Bear gameface on, and it's a good angle to work at. It reads well on from various camera positions and the fans eat it up, regurgitate, and eat it again.

MJF proposes a match with his own premeditated stipulations, and while he will be fighting the Demo God for a future main event, he makes it abundantly clear that he's gunning for the young one and anyone who gets in his way.

The crowd buys into it, the commentators sell it, and Sammy is all too happy to get the hell out of there when it's said and done.

When they are seemingly alone backstage, Jake takes special interest in looking over his cub's healing leg. There's officially no more pink swollen flesh, no more pus or infection, the scabbing and necrotic flesh are all stripped and healed. The stitches aren't quite ready to come out yet, but they will be soon. He runs a hand over the seam where Sammy's actual skin is growing and attaching itself to the cadaver skin. It looks good, all things considered. He touches it lightly, feels it, warms it under the attention of a careful hand. And his cub not only allows the contact but also appreciates and draws comfort from it.

"Maybe a week or so after the stitches come out," Jake says thoughtfully, just as much for his own benefit as his cub's, "we can get you on some light leg presses, work on building this up again." He gives the calf a light squeeze, and Sammy's truly amazed at how it _doesn't_ hurt.

A little bit of time and patience, and his leg really, truly is recovering. Not at full capacity, but the pain isn't there. And he's almost completely weaned off his pain meds, having traded his dizzying doses for private sessions with Sir Hager.

Guevara's feeling pretty good about how things are going. And he feels even better when he gets that first entirely too public- right in front of everyone and the whole damn camera crew- mouth-to-mouth action.

There's a camera practically right over Hager's shoulder when they kiss. And there's a moment of apprehension when Jake wonders if he's made things too public for his cub's comfort. His worries, however, are dashed when they part and Sammy greets the camera with a tongue flick and the claim of: "Kip, buddy, your relationship with Penelope isn't the hottest thing on camera anymore. And I got my plus-one for your wedding." He slips a jovial arm around the big guy for a bit of emphasis.

Hager's all too elated and riding a natural high when Guevara all but drags him down the hall, to the bathroom and locks the door behind them. In an instant they are drawn together almost magnetically, hands busy working their way beneath clothing and mouths connecting in hungry, needy kisses that consist of pliant lips, searching tongues, and scraping teeth.

"Can't wait to get home?" Jake breathes out the question between getting an oral fix of Sammy saliva.

"Can't wait," Sammy confirms as he tugs at Jake's shirt. "Why do you wear this? it's in the way. You should show off your chest more often-"

Jake rolls his eyes but smiles all the same. "Easy there, cub. How about I just get you off real quick and we can make things more personal at home?"

"Don't be selfish," Sammy admonishes. He's ready and he's horny, and things are looking up for him. When could the timing possibly be better?

He gets his answer when someone knocks on the door rather insistently.

So Jake takes initiative, mutters: "alright, real quick," and pins Sammy against the wall. He opts to give the smaller wrestler the quickest handjob he can and it's possibly a record, if anyone keeps track of that. Results of completion don't come fast enough, though, so Jake drops to his knees, tugs at Sammy's gear so that his tight little trunks are caught around his thighs.

And then Jake goes down, putting that big mouth to use. He takes it all the way, breathing through his nose and swallowing around the excited appendage. The sensation is hot and wet and the pressure is perfect to the point where the young cub releases embarrassingly quick.

Sammy's a little bummed at the rush, and he wants to say as much, then return the favor. It's not often that he gets to really show his appreciation to the blonde.

But then that knocking is back tenfold, and Sammy relents that, yeah, they should wait til they get home.

-

They barely make it in and shut the door before both men are stripped down and Jake is after Sammy like they're playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game.

Hager almost laughs at seeing his cub run bare-assed naked through the kitchen to grab a bottle of water and then bolt to the bedroom. It's as bizarre as it is endearing, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

Jake pursues at a much calmer pace, taking time for both himself and Sammy to prepare for their late night plans. He enters the bedroom, doesn't bother to shut the door, and is greeted with the sight of one brilliantly sexy cub posed provocatively on the bed. Spilled water cascades from Sammy's mouth down his chest, some of it soaking into the blankets; the bottle is empty and discarded. The whole scene and situation is a little absurd and Jake finds himself saying: "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were trying to seduce me." It's meant to be rhetorical. He feels a little silly after the words leave his mouth.

Guevara doesn't get the memo. Instead, the Spanish God huffs a little indignantly and sits up. He's on full display, completely shameless. "Well, yeah. Is it at least working? I'm not sure what else to-"

"It's working," Hager confirms quickly as he approaches the bed. And he means it, but then again, his cub always looks good. "Greenlight?"

"Greenlight," Sammy answers. "Safe word is Hardy," he adds, then a thought occurs to him and a smirk tugs at his lips. "Maybe you should have a safe word too, in case I'm too much for you to handle."

"Greenlight," Hager approves the caution; he's got a slight case of the jitters. "Safe word is... Wardlow." He can't say it with a straight face, and both he and his cub end up laughing. "Nevermind. That doesn't belong in the bedroom."

Sammy's laughter is slow to die down and he beckons his sir closer. When Jake complies, Sammy reaches a hand to touch blonde hair, feels the silky texture and trails his palm down to Hager's cheek, then neck and shoulder, and eventually leaves it to rest over a defined chest. "We... the people..." he says, and makes eye contact.

Deep earthy brown contest with bright heavenly blue. It's a collision of worlds and a union of hemispheres.

Two things coming together in a cosmic way.

"We the people," Jake echoes, and his arms encircle Guevara, the feel of skin on skin all too pleasant even with the trail of spilled water- and they haven't even done anything yet.

"Think an All-American can handle a Spanish God?" Sammy's mouth is showing too much teeth to be flattering, but the expression is so candid that suits him.

Jake answers him by diving in to place a kiss along his jaw, then moves a little lower to attack that pale column of throat. His facial fuzz is more beard than stubble, but it's trimmed and tidy enough that it doesn't detract from the appeal. The brush of the bristles lights Sammy's neck up with a nice little rash and he shivers through the pleasant sensation.

Sammy lays out on the bed, propped up on strategically placed pillows, one under his lower back, as Jake looms over him.

There's no tension, no fear. Just absolute desire and need between them.

Sammy doesn't even clam up when he sees Jake uncap a bottle of lubricant and bring a slickened hand towards his backside. Guevara aids the activity by drawing his legs up and out of the way. He pushes his head back into a plush pillow and closes his eyes, waits a moment, and breathes through the feeling of that digit when it first breeches.

It's not good, but not bad. Maybe a little uncomfortable. But the feeling doesn't last because then the finger is moving with gentle strokes and aborted little half-thrusts until the tight ring of muscle is stimulated enough to relax and loosen, and then the digit dips in deep- and-

-and there's a stretch, velvety smooth walls adjusting to accommodate the intrusion.

A few pumps of the finger, some more lube, and then an added finger.

Two fingers is significantly more filling than one, but it's still not bad.

It gets bad when Hager attempts to work a third in too soon and the tender, delicate skin around the ring stretches too much to the point of nearly tearing; this has Sammy pulling a face of distaste. "Not... Not quite yet, Jake. Not yet..."

Hager gets the message, loud and clear, and slows down. To help things along, he puts his free hand to work with a few tugs to the Spanish God's cock. It doesn't take more than a couple pulls before the young man is arching into it, trying to get more of that feeling. But the more of that hand he gets, the more those fingers probe on the down slope of his frantic little hip swivels.

It's a fair trade, he decides quickly enough, and then it's absolutely not bad at all when Hager's fingers are buried deep, and they scissor and twist and catch on-

_There we go._

The cub lets out surprised keen, the sound pitched high and effeminate. He controls himself a little afterwards, focuses on drawing more controlled breaths instead of releasing virginal moans.

All too soon, those fingers are gone but the hand around his cock is still persistent with the pump and alternating pressure levels. It's enough to keep him going, and then there's the bump of a slick lubed cockhead taking an uncoordinated swipe at his crack-

In Jake's defense, anal is new to him too.

-and then it slips in, just the tip.

It's wide and thick and Sammy lets out a surprised little " _Oh_..." The sound tapers off into a thoughtful hum. He's not sure what to think of it.

Jake isn't even in yet and he's worked up a sweat. He braces himself, tries to be patient, and tries for a smooth glide in, but it's not as easy as it seems. It doesn't happen in one go. It takes a few rocks of the hips and a fair amount of force to get more than a couple inches in.

It's so tight.

But then he finally sinks in, all the way, bottoms out-

Sammy's legs wrap around his Sir's waist instinctively and they are drawn together even closer, both breathing hard and staring at one another.

Sammy's eyes are half-lidded and his mouth his open wide, breath drawing in quick little bursts, face flushed with sweat and heat and arousal.

Jake's whole body burns with desire and for the first time he's buried deep in his cub, and the hot heat and the pressure around his dick is almost too much for him to handle. He doesn't move right away; he just breathes and focuses on the expression on his cub's face as well as the feeling of their bodies melding into one entity.

It's an experience that feels downright spiritual.

Sammy loses his patience first, arches, rolls his hips, trying to tell Jake to move without using any words.

Jake gets the hint, braces his hands against the bed sheets on either side of Sammy, draws out and then pushes back in one smooth thrusting motion. The drag of those walls along his cock feel nothing short of blissful, and it's clear that Sammy's feeling it too because the young man's head is tossed back in the throes of ecstasy.

Jake goes slow until Sammy is writhing and panting, letting slip that high pitched keen once more, nails scratching down his sir's back. And then Jake is picking up the pace, going faster and harder until the bed creaks and then rocks, and at some point all four poster legs of the bed are elevated and crash back down like a poltergeist's angry haunt.

"F-Fuck me," Sammy begs, face flushed and brain fogged with endorphins. He's so close, there's heat pulling in his gut and his dick is swollen red and bouncing with the act of their lovemaking. He's not going to last, and he's okay with that. As long as this is something they get to do. If his brain wasn't high on Hager, he'd wonder why they wasted so much time not having sex when it is clearly something they do well together.

Like Tic Tac Toe with Marko, but a million times more satisfying.

But Sammy doesn't think. He _can't_ think. He can do little more than struggle between the sheets and his partner and beg for release. The feeling becomes so ardent that his eyes grow moist and an intense wave of unnamed emotion swells in his chest to an almost painful degree.

He doesn't mean to cry when he cums. It's one of those things that just happen. One loud choked sound followed by silent open-mouthed sobs.

Jake chases his own orgasm, working a little harder after his cub releases and the young man's spilled seed paints them both. He works harder, fueled by the tight spasm of his partner and the tremendously beautiful sight beneath him as his cub breaks down into something so wholesomely vulnerable. When Hager's own gut clenches and he spills his load into the Spanish God, it truly is a religious occurrence. He stays buried deep, all the way to the hilt as he rests against his cub, face tucked into the juncture between Sammy's neck and shoulder, arms braced so he doesn't crush the young man.

Their flesh is sticky with sweat and Sam-cum against one another, their breaths are harsh and their hearts are racing, and something about the moment is decidedly pure.

Still, Jake asks: "Was it... Was it good?"

Sammy's eyes are wet, tear tracks painting lines that follow gravity. "Yeah... just..." he sniffles a little and his voice is thick with raw emotion. "Jake, don't let me go, okay?" He looks and sounds wrecked.

And what kind of man would Jake Hager be if he denied such a request? He is careful when he pulls out and takes Sammy into his arms. He lays down with his cub held tight, and Sammy rests his head on his sir's chest. "Nothing or no one could make me let go," Jake promises. "Don't be sad or scared. Not when I'm here. I'm not leaving."

And he means it more than he's ever meant anything.

Sammy's tears have stopped flowing by the time he finds his voice and manages to ask: "Jake... Did you put a baby in me?"

Jake answers by telling him to get some sleep; they'll shower in the morning.

And Sammy complies because he's tired and sated and he feels more relaxed than he thought possible. But he does entertain the idea.

When he dreams, there's a quaint image of himself and Jake each pushing a baby stroller, and inside each stroller is a living incarnation of a PandaSam. The only thing that he finds odd is that neither cub resembles Jake... and he didn't get fucked by a bear.

-

The stitches come out two weeks later.

A week after that, Jake is working with Sammy through physical therapy, resistance exercises, and eventual leg presses.

It's a slow process, but determination is key.

Sammy sets and meets goals at breakneck speed, and every milestone is marked by celebratory moments with his partner.

-

It's a few months before the highly anticipated event _finally_ comes.

Chris Jericho was losing a fight with MJF in a big way due to some cheap shots and a blind official while Hager caught Wardlow with a punishing knee strike to the balls.

The timing for this dramatic showdown is convenient and correlates with Sammy's return.

When Sammy Guevara makes a jump, goes for the senton and lands on MJF...

...this time, it's on purpose.

The crowd erupts in an insane burst of excitement when Sammy kips up and throws his arms out and head back in a crucifixion pose.

_-This is moment to this shine. This is my time for flight_   
_I've been grinding forever just for this very night...-_

As he stands there in the spot light, he decides then and there... that life is good.

Couldn't be better.

In his own way, through his own trials and sacrifices with the aid of those around him, he's learned acceptance and he's overcome the story of his own personal struggle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could have carried this on for another few chapters, but I feel like this is a good way to finish.  
> I want to thank everyone who stuck around through the journey. Look into the Darby spinoff which has officially begun; it is titled Pressing Lilies.  
> For any additional content for Bubbly Orange, Struggle, and [newly added] Pressing Lilies, keep an eye on Champagne Corks and Orange Peels.


End file.
